Aurora Borealis
by elveljung
Summary: After a disastrous battle in space, the unconscious Kira is fetched by the Klueze team. Ostensibly AthrunKira, but with a sizeabe amount of DearkaYzak as well.
1. AthrunColored Dreams

**Aurora Borealis: 01:**

**Athrun-Colored Dreams**

**A/N:** Please be aware that this is rather an old 'fic. I've been meaning again and again to go through it, editing out errors etc., but by now there has been so much time since I originally wrote it that my style of writing, ideas of characterization etc. have changed enough that a beta-ing would turn inevitably into a complete re-writing. Seeing as I've fallen out of the GS/D fandom, I find it unlikely that I will take the trouble to do this. Rather, the best course of action seems, to me at least, to be to leave _Aurora_ up in its present form, as a story I was satisfied with at least when I wrote it, and that many people have been kind enough to let me know they enjoyed.

xxxxx

For Kira, it has always been Athrun. It's so obviously true, on so many levels.

Siting up in bed, arms clutched around his knees, he can't stop shaking. He's sweaty all over, hair and nightwear clinging to his clammy skin, and his eyes are wet to match. Waking up in the impersonal dark room, in silence except for the eternal rumbling of the Archangel's motors, is nothing new, nor is the cause. He spends a lot of nights dreaming, after all, endures his sleeping mind cooking up all kinds of scenarios.

Tonight they've been especially bad.

Idyllic images from Orb and Heliopolis, running around laughing and playing like he did as a child. His mother hugging him, his father teaching him to ride a bike.

That's not so terrible though. Kira has become more accustomed to pain than he dares to think about, and the memories aren't that emotionally loaded. A mostly happy childhood that was lost to him long before now. He's not overly close to his parents, and anyway, he never liked trying to bike. It just wasn't worth all those scraped knees, and he rarely ever uses the skill he eventually acquired. If it were only this that nightmares meant, he could deal.

But in the middle of the night there's battle, horrible explosions that make the sky bleed, fire raining over him. He's slashing and cursing and with every move he makes he kills a person. Already the second time he fought with Strike he took the life from someone, stole the light away from a nameless stranger's eyes forever. Now he murders countless people with every sweep of the Sword Striker, hears the metal scream as he slashes through the units, then the pilots as the damage reaches them, tears their flesh apart. And he stops, aghast: and as fast as he does, so fast as he gains enough breathing space to wash the blood off his hands, even more people start dying. He's not doing anything, but endless numbers of little girls are being murdered and he knows it's all his fault, so he takes firm hold of the Sword Striker again and forces himself to keep killing.

Distantly he recognizes them as renderings of his halfway subconscious feelings of being trapped and forced and sinful. It helps little, because he is trapped and forced and sinful.

Those are the bad dreams, bad enough to have him moaning in distress, tossing in a futile attempt to escape. Nevertheless these scenarios are soon forgotten, for next comes the _really_ bad one. The battlefield is a little taste of the unpleasant, but true horror calls to him from a road between trees that weep cherry blossoms into the wind.

At first he watches from outside the picture, sees two boys standing face to face. They both have sad eyes, though they are also both attempting to smile. The blue-haired one speaks: the words make reality lurch, and the next moment Kira is looking through his younger self's eyes, staring at Athrun. They're so close it hurts, the brief contact when his friend hands him Torii makes his skin burn. Kira's cold, he's so very cold: he reaches out, desperately, crushing Athrun's hand in his.

He hangs on to it as the dream changes, is still holding it when the scenario has stabilized. There's only him and Athrun now, no background to distract, and they aren't so small anymore. Athrun looks like he did that time in Heliopolis, taller than he used to be, dressed in a red military suit though without the helmet. Kira doesn't have to check to know that he too is wearing battle garb, his one blue and white. But Athrun has one arm around his waist, pressing them together, giving comfort and warmth. Kira sighs with contentment as the other's free hand, the one still entwined with his own, reaches up and strokes his face. They're very close, so close that Kira can taste Athrun on the air he breathes in, can feel the other's exhalations against his mouth. He's not freezing anymore: in fact, the comfortable warmth has developed into heat racing up and down his body, and he tilts his head, just slightly, and…

…and wakes up. When he's dreamt of fighting and hurting and blood that's a good thing, the best part of the entire day, because then at least reality, right now, is a little less horrid than what he has just been through. He can calm down, then, and appreciate that there are soft sheets around him, and quiet, relief.

Having dreamt of Athrun and the flowers and the touches he can only curl up, contract himself into a little ball of quivering human flesh and try not to scream: he doesn't want to wake anyone up. He can't quench the sobs though, the thick noises of weeping that run through his throat, or the silent tears. He cries until his eyes are so dry they burn, presses his fingers into his arms and chest, drawing bruises: longs for Athrun so much it hurts, wants for his presence. He yearns for him to sit down at Kira's bedside, as he did so many times when they were roommates at the prep school, yearns for him to lean forward in that sweetly hesitant manner, stroke a shook of brown hair away and whisper everything good: yearns for him to nudge Kira aside and slip under the coverlets with him, yearns to hold and be held by Athrun.

Kira needs Athrun, he has for as long as he can remember. It's as though his life began when they met, the time before that constituting merely a bleak transport to that one important instant. Kira's time stopped when Athrun disappeared away to PLANT, and it didn't start running again until that terrible moment in the factory in Heliopolis, on the machine with the injured woman and the familiar stranger with the gun whom he was confident would never fire at him.

He whimpers painfully, wishing there were some way to turn back time and make things different: that there was some way for him to have stopped Athrun, talked to him, then at once or at any point up until now, or even better, he wishes they had never been separated, that his friend had never left for PLANT.

But none of that is possible, and Kira is very well aware of this. When the previous weeks upon weeks of nightly hoping hasn't changed a thing, why should now be any different?

Instead he tries to focus on the people aboard the ship, the crew and his friends and Fllay Allister. She gets a category all to herself because she's not a part of the Archangel team and she's not exactly a friend of his. More than her low esteem for his kind, he knows that Tolle and Miriallia think that this is due to him having a crush on her, and maybe in a way he did. At least he tried to, as one of many attempts to find something in Heliopolis to truly distract him from the missing Athrun and the huge parts of Kira that he'd taken with him.

Kira can clearly recall the exact second his supposed interested in Fllay began. It was at a party in the beginning of summer held by a rich kid from school. Tolle had somehow managed to convince Sai to bring him and Miri, and had dragged Kira along as well. The evening had been all right. Kira felt weird and a little apprehensive around the noise and alcohol and flashing lights, but it was fun too. Shortly after midnight Tolle grabbed his arm, saying he had to meet Allister's daughter. Kira shrugged and let himself be pushed through the crowd: froze, when they'd left the hallway and entered the living room and Fllay was there. She was pretty, but not exactly in a delicate way, and rather tall for a girl. Her hair was done up on to of her head, and she had a suit jacket that her boyfriend had probably lent her over the dress. And, though her father doesn't like her using contacts, she had to, simply had to, you get that, right, Miri, cause this is like the greatest party of the season and I just had to look my best, and with this hair… Her eyes were green. Athrun-colored, like wet grass.

Kira stared at her until Tolle nudged him in the ribs, amused and teasing. From that moment on his friends have been convinced he has a crush on Fllay Allister, and he tells himself that they're right, that he's sneaking glances at the spoiled girl he doesn't know because he's interested in her and not because there were pale flowers all around her green eyes and he was looking for Torii on her shoulder.

Tolle wasn't wrong when he claimed that Kira's expression was that of a guy who's just realized he's in love. But Tolle doesn't know that this universe was created as background for Athrun Zala, so of course he doesn't know with whom.

Kira gives a sound that's somewhere between a sob and a sigh and a whimper. Even without the added complications of daytime, such as Athrun being on the enemy side, fighting against him, it's evident that he has reason to miss the simple time when they were best friends, no more and no less.

Though perhaps that was mainly because the concept of 'something more' did not exist for them. By now it's clearer than Kira really wants it to be that the childhood cuddling he remembers with such longing isn't even close to all he wants. He's had dreams in which they do considerably more than almost-kiss. Considerably more, and if he weren't so despaired he may have blushed. He chokes down a sob instead, biting at the lower lip Athrun's never kissed in reality, which feels this its innocence as a physical loss.

Now he isn't dreaming anything at all, and he can't cry anymore either and he realizes that he feels sick. Not only as a psychosomatic reaction, but really, genuinely physically ill. He's also still trembling and cold: odd, that, since he's still sweating. His throat is sore and raw, matching his stomach.

There's barely enough time for him to lean over the side of the bed before he hurls all over the floor. The vomit makes a splashing sound upon hitting it which, combined with the smell and aftertaste, makes his insides heave again.

He's probably retched up what he ate last week when the alarm goes off.

_Not now!_ he thinks desperately as he staggers to his feet, leaning weakly against the wall, treading carefully so as to not step in the mess he's made. His eyes fall shut in pain as the light blinks on, but he forces them open again and struggles into a pair of pants.

The way to the machine hall where Strike is, through the too-bright corridors with one arm against the wall for support and Torii fluttering worriedly about him, feels like a thousand miles. When he finally arrives at his destination he's about to black out, has to pause in the doorway because there are so many black spots fluttering back and fro in front of his eyes that he can't properly make out where the Gundam is. The mechanics are yelling at him, but he can't comprehend what they're saying, is just grateful that they stop when he floats to Strike.

He has to close his eyes against the dizziness when they launch, and the abrupt movement forces him to bend over and heave again. He really isn't in any condition to fight, but he has no more choice now than ever, and his head feels a bit clearer after the latest throw-up session.

Surprisingly, this time it isn't the Le Klueze Team. Instead Kira finds himself facing about ten GINNs whose pilots are obviously not remotely as skilled as his normal opponents. Any other day he and La Flaga, aided by the Archangel's cannons, would have polished them off without trouble.

Tonight, however, Kira's too occupied trying not to faint to give them a proper match. He barely manages to activate the phase shift armor in time to avoid decapitation. La Flaga is having an upset monologue over the radio frequency, but Kira finds himself unable to respond. How could he, when he can't even keep his eyes open anymore? He doesn't remember ever feeling this sick in his entire life. Being a Coordinator, he's almost never been ill, but when he is, as though in penance for his usual health, he's always in extremely bad shape.

"Athrun," he moans, feverish and incoherent. "Help. Athrun, please. I need you."

The voice that answers him is a girl's and sharp with worry. "Kira!" Miriallia cries. "Come back at once!"

"Right," he mumbles, somehow managing to steer Strike in the right direction. The Gundam practically crashes on the deck of the Archangel.

He's safe now, then, right?

That's what he does wrong. And he supposes that, sick or not, if you're stupid enough to relax in the middle of battle, then you've sort of brought disaster upon yourself. And disaster comes for Kira Yamato in the form of two enraged GINNs, accompanied by shouting over the radio and too little time to avoid. He's too weak to scream as fire from gun and sword bears into Strike, heat and sparks exploding into the cockpit. If he were lucid, he'd probably have time to think something along the lines of, _So this is how I end_, or so he believes, before his hand hits the only button that can save him now, mostly by mistake.

Next thing he knows he's being catapulted out in a blast of energy.

xxxxx

Yzak is not a kind person, nor would many describe him as patient. The latter is wrong, since Yzak has plenty of dedication and can rather easily become all but obsessed with things, but fact remains that it's a bit strange for him to be walking around on this old satellite, for all appearances looking for survivors.

He has thought more than once that if you can't make it back on your own, then perhaps you'd better just remain where you are so as to not burden your betters, but that was before Miguel and Rusty. With that damnable legged ship and its cursed Gundam around they can't afford to waste even halfway decent pilots. Besides, there's no way whatever idiot Natural fights in Strike can be better than ZAFT's elite forces. Luck shouldn't matter, but if it didn't Miguel and Rusty would live and the last G-unit would be theirs.

And a few hours earlier the captain received a report that some fighting appeared to have taken place here, possibly against the Archangel, and with the current shortage of personnel he asked one of them to go take a look. Yzak and Athrun were the only ones currently present, and of course Yzak refused to let Athrun steal any of his glory.

Pretty stupid move, he admits to himself now, since this is the kind of boring task his rival can deal with.

The asteroid-like satellite was abandoned years ago, and the rough grey asphalt-surface is littered with trash. It appears there has indeed been battle recently, as a majority of the junk consists of dismembered limbs from mobile suits. Some of the remnants are human, but he has yet to find anyone alive when one of the attendants he's brought with him for the search calls for him.

Yzak hurries over and finds the man squatting next to a boy of seemingly the same age as the Le Klueze Team who looks extremely out of place here. If the satellite didn't have an atmosphere he'd be dead, because the helmet he appears to have been wearing is cracked beyond recognition. Still, if it weren't for that one piece of space suit it would've been an even more incredulous sight: a slender boy with a mop of brown hair, dressed in what appears to be tatters of a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

He's pale and littered with bruises, but Yzak doesn't think his condition is life threatening and is about to let the others take him away to the closest proper military hospital when he stirs. Yzak crouches down beside the unfamiliar boy, staring fixedly at his face as one bleary, unfocused purple eye blinks open.

"Ath…run," the stranger murmurs, "Athrun, please…"

"What?" Yzak demands, leaning forward over him. "You know Athrun Zala? Who exactly are you?"

As he should have known, it's useless in the sense that the semi-conscious stranger doesn't provide him with an answer. He does, however, give Yzak access to some rather startling information of a different kind: "Please, Athrun," he mumbles on, "I love you."

Yzak doesn't like Athrun and would never do him any kind of favor, so he tells himself he's only doing this because he'd like to win a certain bet against Dearka and to embarrass the blue-haired git who is, after all, engaged.

"Bring a stretcher," he orders. "I'm taking him back with me immediately."

xxxxxxxxxx


	2. Is Everyone here Gay?

**Aurora Borealis**

**Is Everyone on this Damn Ship Gay?**

Dearka flops down on his neatly made bed with a movement that, were anyone around, he'd like to describe to them as characterized by the lazy grace of a natural predator. No one is around, though, which is why he isn't being scolded for messing up the recently cleaned room.

He gives a speculative glance at Yzak's side of the room, which is nauseatingly neat as usual. Normally he wouldn't, but now that they're leaving for a short holiday in a few hours he's tempted to mess up his friend's stuff. Nothing big, mind you, just pick some clothes from the wardrobe and toss them on the floor and over the back of the chair, wrinkle the strict lines of the beddings: make it look lived in.

Yzak would explode, but Dearka could handle that. He might even say it's Athrun's fault, which is a claim his friend would choose to believe despite its utter ridiculousness. Besides, considering how many times Dearka has cleared up the worst of the messes caused by Yzak's tantrums, he figures it's within his rights.

After a thoughtful moment he arrives at his decision and gets up from his own bed, now comfortably messy, in favor of sprawling all over Yzak's. Having made himself comfortable he reaches for the stack of magazines on the table.

Sometimes he wonders if everyone on this damn ship is gay. It's a legitimate question, for he himself appears to be the only one even remotely interested in the glossy pictures of very scantily or not at all dressed women. Back in school these kinds of things had to be locked up to avoid theft and could be sold for considerable amounts of money: now he can leave them lying around anywhere and no one does more than glance at them in disgust or exasperation.

Miguel used to look at them very eagerly, but Miguel's dead. Damn Natural pilot in fucking G-unit he has no sodding right to use against them. Actually, part of the reason Dearka is so fond of the magazines might be that several of them are inheritances from the deceased blond.

As for the ones still alive… Well, let's just say Dearka's fairly certain there's not a straight man in sight. Rusty probably was, but he's dead as well, and Olor and his group have been transferred elsewhere.

Commander Le Klueze… Well, when you get right down to it, is Dearka really the only one who finds it the tiniest bit suspicious that their handsome, very blond commander directs a team made up solely of pretty boys?

Nicol is a poof if Dearka has ever seen one, all chubby and cute and sensitive. Born to the wrong gender, obviously, the way he's constantly making puppy-dog-eyes at Athrun.

Dearka's not sure that's any idea, though. As far as the Buster pilot's knowledge reaches, young Mr. Zala might even be straight. He declined a long-ago joking offer to look at Dearka's magazines with a haughty and somewhat scandalized, "I'm engaged!" but Yzak swears Athrun's gay, and Dearka might yet take his word for it. After all, Zala is betrothed to a real sugar puff, Miss I'm Like Totally the Hottest Singer in PLANT herself to be exact, and Dearka has yet to see any signs of excitement over this. Currently he and Yzak have a bet on a sizeable amount of money regarding the issue of their green-eyed comrade's sexual preferences.

Yzak is always a risky subject, (actually, Dearka throws a reflexive glance at the doorway, as though expecting his friend to be standing there listening in on his thoughts. The idea is not as strange as it sounds: Dearka is probably the one who knows Yzak best in the world, and it goes both ways. Yzak knows when he's being thought of and tends to assume, even with Dearka, that those thoughts aren't complimentary) but it's a known fact that the silver-haired boy has never been on a date in his life, just as it is a known fact that very few girls indeed would like a boyfriend who's ten times prettier than they are. Compared to Yzak, Nicol is close to the epitome of traditional masculinity. Oh, Juhle Jr. is though as nails and has the temperament of a starved predator, but he's…too deliciously delicate to be anything but impossible with girls. Not that Yzak's not impossible with most people.

Indeed, Dearka is clearly the only man around.

He stifles a pained smile, the magazine drifting from his fingers and falling over his lap like a forgotten mask.

Sometimes at night he watches Yzak change, purple eyes flickering over gracefully slender limbs and ingesting areas of pale-smooth skin. He knows through the touching that follows any intense friendship between long-time roommates what mostly every part of Yzak's body feels like. When he fantasizes about a girl it's the sensation of Yzak's hair and skin he provides her with.

His… _her_ cheeks flush violently in what they both pretend is anger when Dearka brushes a fingertip over hi… _her _face, stroking a fringe of hair out of blue eyes.

Unfortunately it's just not credible to imagine a girl could pin him down. He lets his imaginary partner do it sometimes anyway, like Yzak has on so many occasions in mostly playful wrestling, cause that's how Dearka's become familiar with the feel of his friend's arms, his back and chest and hips and legs. It's okay to touch so long as it's in the manly spirit of training or goofing off.

It's completely asexual to sit atop your best friend, straddling him on your bed, and keep repeating to yourself that the hard something poking into the back of your thigh is just some trinket or other in his pocket. Even if you're both in just your nightclothes, which don't even have any pockets. There's nothing weird about staring at how panting breaths make their way in and out of your friend's parted lips, or about taking the time to familiarize yourself with his chest or thighs while you're ostensibly holding him down. Nothing wrong at all.

Still, he's feeling uneasy now and the magazine isn't what he wants. He tosses it on the floor in annoyance, searching the doorway for Yzak. It's simple reflex: when Juhle Jr. isn't around Dearka is almost always, inevitably looking for him. He can scarcely imagine a time before that was so natural a fact that it didn't even occur to him to wonder about it.

Now, finally, there are sounds in the hallway that call to him. Dearka jumps off the bed and hurries out to see Yzak pushing a stretcher with a seemingly unconscious boy in it through the corridor. Normally this unusual appearance would have it flooded with nurses and commanders, but with the upcoming holiday the sole person present save Dearka himself is the rapidly approaching Athrun Zala.

Dearka has never seen the normally composed and slightly aloof blue-haired boy like this: frantic ice-white face, running as fast as one can possibly manage in a light-gravity space. Even Yzak's just sort of silently staring at him as he halts his wild dash by grabbing onto the stretcher.

"Kira," he says, breathlessly, incredulous and worried sick, one hand cupping the stranger's cheek. "Oh god, Kira, how…? Yzak, what…?"

"Picked him up," Yzak replies. "No lethal damage, but you should take him to the infirmary."

Athrun gives a shaky nod before following the advice.

Yzak turns to the still somewhat stunned Dearka with a cheeky, victorious smirk. "You owe me fifty bucks."

xxxxx

Sai is numb with shock, his fingers trembling in the air above the keyboard through which he's been manning one of the weaker cannons. He's not the only one, and that worries him even more: after all, where he is only a student from a neutral, destroyed colony, most of these people are trained soldiers. If they're freaking, it must be really bad.

And when "normal" includes life-and-death battles against a genetically superior race and his friend slowly breaking apart under his helplessly watchful eyes, Sai doesn't want to think about what "really bad" means.

Really bad is the Archangel in a panic, the ship heavily damaged from the attack. It'll be a good while before La Flaga's Zero can be put to use again: would have been even longer, had the mobile armor not been top priority now that it's the only piloted weapon they can utilize. Sai's stomach lurches at the thought, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he could help Kira out by taking turns with him in the Gundam.

Really bad is Tolle pale as a ghost demanding they search for his missing friend, a request coldly denied by Ensign Badguriel. She's obviously shaken but nonetheless explains harshly that MIA is rarely more than a fancier term for "killed". The words seem to freeze the Command Bridge. Sai thinks that he doesn't like the Ensign, really he doesn't, but he's glad they're on the same side.

Really bad is Captain Ramius with a hand over her face, as though trying to gain some distance and hold back tears. She's a kind and admirable woman despite the resentment he felt in Heliopolis when she contained them for circumstances than none of them could alter, but she has effectively caused the death of a remarkably innocent and deft young man who should never had had anything to do with the war. None of them should, but Sai's not much for that kind of abstract fantasies and Kira's more obviously unsuited than most for these conditions. Now that he's gone, likely dead, it's almost inevitable that they'll all soon follow suit.

With that reality upon them Sai wishes for once that he wasn't smart, that he didn't see the logical consequences of things. They might have an advanced ship and a G-unit, but only Coordinators can fight Coordinators. Sai's a Natural: a good one, but that still means he can't ever compare.

With a sting he remembers a few comments he's made, about acheivements by Coordinators being only a result of tampered with genes. He's pretty sure Kira's too kind to realize that there's much more envy than disdain or conviction in those remarks, and now Sai will probably never have the chance to admit that.

Kuzzey really shouldn't have been the first to realize what Kira is (Sai refuses to think about him in past tense): Kuzzey doesn't know him half as well as Tolle and Miriallia, and he's not half as smart as Sai. But Tolle and Miri are too blinded by emotion to notice, too caught up in _who_ Kira is to really care much about _what_, and Sai… Sai never wanted to believe that, since he liked the Coordinator too much to want to get into a situation where he was doomed to always try to compete and inevitably fail.

Sai bites his lip, slightly ashamed to be entertaining such thoughts when his friend has most likely died to protect them but too smart to blame himself overly. Still, Miri's raw cries, only partly muffled by Tolle's shoulder, eat at him.

"I should have known," she sobs. "We should never have let him out to fight in that condition. I should have realized there was something wrong."

The only answer she receives is something Tolle mumbles into her hair, the words inaudible to Sai and perhaps also to Miri herself. That probably makes little difference, as Sai has no doubt that they, like Tolle's hand stroking her back, are intended to sooth rather than explain. Sai doesn't think any of them can explain this in an even remotely satisfying way: none of them are the type to sprout platitudes like 'the Lord works in mysterious ways'.

There's a very distinct possibility that Miriallia is right: it's obvious enough now that Kira wasn't himself.

Between the pilot's tendency to get kicked around in the beginning of every fight and the concentration it takes to fulfill his own duties, it was rather a while before Sai got worried. Panic didn't reach him until Miri screamed at Kira to return, even though the lesser attack force had dealt them more damage than ever Le Klueze and his elites.

The cause isn't a mystery either: there've been reports of large amounts of vomit both in Kira's room and in Strike's cockpit.

Still… At length it's Sai who says what most of the adults are probably thinking, "Even if we had known, Miri, would there have been any choice but to send him out?" Her teary blue eyes are accusing, and he raises a hand in a reflexive attempt to ward her anger off before continuing, "We'd be dead if he hadn't fought. Kira wouldn't have wanted that, that's why he didn't say anything."

The words ring of truth, which, strangely, makes Sai reel with guilt.

"At this rate we'll die anyway," his friend replies, tone hushed and downcast. She's normally a cheery girl, but she's never been stupid. Once again he's left without answers, both to her questions and to his own.

"That's the problem we're currently facing, yes," Mu La Flaga speaks up, for which Sai is very grateful. Certainly the officer can provide comfort or at the very least distraction. The blond man has been grim ever since returning onboard, though, and the normal laughter-tint to his voice is obviously forced. Seems he's grown rather fond of Kira while trying to keep the boy on the correct path. "Girl's right: there's no way in hell we can reach any EA base without the kid and his Gundam. I propose we hide in the deep part of the Debris Belt."

There's a little bit of hope in the captain's face as she meets La Flaga's eyes. Sai doesn't blame her for accepting reassurance from the bright and out-going officer, but he's well aware that this is no ideal solution, if a solution at all. They all are, he can't imagine otherwise.

"We'd be almost totally immobilized for gods know how long, before either ZAFT or the EA finds us," La Flaga continues. "At least we'd survive, for now. It's worth a shot."

Excellent points, the lot of them. Unfortunately, to Sai's ears, so is Tolle's loud interjection: "But Kira…! You can't just leave him here! You said he escaped! We have to look for him!"

"Don't be a child," Badguriel snaps, and Sai winces as though the words were aimed at him. In a sense he almost wishes they were: if he were trying to intercede on Kira's behalf he'd have a cleaner conscience. Unfortunately the logical portion of his brain is a bit too dominant for that. "The area will be flooded with enemy vessels within minutes. Speaking of which, Captain, I propose we make our move immediately."

Murrue Ramius nods decisively and speaks up. As the ship turns there's a soft _torii_ and a green shape flies onto the Bridge. Sai's eyes are suddenly brim-full with tears as he turns his gaze away from the little mechanical bird. It's an advanced creation, and Sai has never seen anything similar, so it can hardly have been bought off the shelf. Besides, Kira's had it for as long as Sai's known him, and the bird has never been far from its master: it must mean something to Kira, something really important, and Sai belatedly wonders how the Coordinator came by it.

"Miriallia," the captain says to the still-sobbing girl, not unkindly. "I think it'd be best if you went back to your room and rested for a bit. Why don't your friends go with you?"

Sai, recognizing his cue to leave, gets up and joins his old schoolmates on the floor. Tolle and Miri have their arms around each other, and he feels a bit awkward until he dares place a hand of his own on the distressed girl's shoulder.

She stops suddenly in the doorway, face white and shining with tears but also strangely determined. "Who's Athrun?" she asks.

Sai raises an eyebrow, having no idea. It appears that's the case with the others as well, judging by the silence and the raised eyebrows.

"Why?" La Flaga inquires at last. "I've never met an Athrun."

"I just remembered…" Miriallia replies, subdued and distant. "Right before I told Kira to come back, he said: 'Athrun. Help. Athrun, please. I need you'"

Her voice is an echo of Kira's, a ghostly recollection.

"Oh god, poor kid," Captain Ramius whispers.

"The only Athrun I've ever heard of is Zala's of the Supreme Council son," La Flaga interjects. "But I believe it's a pretty common name on PLANT."

Of course, when even his friends don't know, how could the others be expected to have information on Kira's connection to some Athrun? There's no reason for Sai to be disappointed: nor is there really any reason to dedicate attention they didn't bestow on him before to Kira after his disappearance.

Torii makes an inquisitive sound as Sai and Tolle lead Miriallia away in silence.

xxxxxxxxxx


	3. Not Friends, Exactly

**Aurora Borealis**

**Not Friends, Exactly**

Athrun isn't sure he believes in love.

In a reality where they live in space and kill to avenge murder, can there really be something that bright and uncomplicated?

There's the protectiveness and care of family, but that's mostly due to genes, instincts. Even so, what he shared with his mother felt like something infinitely precious, but it didn't protect her and she's dead and gone from him now. His father… hasn't really been his father since that happened. Athrun lost his family February 14th when Mrs. Zala left for whatever might lie behind and Mr. Zala left for the Council.

"In love" is not as great as people make it out to be. It's a concept of flowers and blushes and girls, and his engagement to Lacus Clyne has taught him that all of that leave him absolutely cold. It could be worse – she's a sweet girl, for which he is grateful, so he tries. He gives her Haro and takes her out to dinner and sometimes he holds her hand. It feels awkward, and when he visits her it's always much easier to make polite conversation with her father than with her.

Some people bring out respect and admiration. Commander Le Klueze is one of them, and so is Mr. Clyne. That's easy to handle.

He doesn't really have any friends, these days. Rusty was an all right roommate, he supposes, but they never had time to get to know each other before he was killed. The only one here he could possibly consider as anything more than a reluctant comrade is Nicol. That, too, is…less than it could be. That's fine with him.

Next there's attraction. In Athrun's mind, desire is a tall man who attended one of his father's party-like gatherings once when Athrun was home on a break. D-something, he thinks he was called. The name isn't that important; what he remembers is the amused amber eyes making his limbs hot and heavy like molten lead, the sure, suave stride that has Athrun backing before he knows it. Three steps and he has his back against the wall, the stranger with the long black curls standing less than a foot away. Athrun's mouth is dry and his breathing labored and he can't decide whether the distance between them is uncomfortable because it's too small or too large. Before he can be sure the man chuckles, leans down, and Athrun feels himself drowning in the onslaught of emotion brought about by the deep, sultry kiss. When the other gives him an amused look and departs without a word Athrun's lips are tingling and his heart's still hammering.

That's when he realizes that his engagement to Lacus Clyne might be something of a mistake in other aspects than personality. He hasn't said anything about it, though, for he's pretty sure he could get it up with a girl too, if he tried, and he'll only need to do it enough times to get an heir.

That's what his father wants, and it's a long time since Athrun protested any of Mr. Zala's decisions. Last time was probably when he spent a summer with Kira and his natural parents instead of coming home. These days he has no reason to, because Kira's not here, and how could Athrun be on any side other than the one opposing his mother's murderers? When his old friend isn't concerned, Athrun is a calm nature, sensible and collected. He smiles a little as he remembers Le Klueze's surprise that he'd launch against orders in Heliopolis; he himself and Kira are probably the only two who wouldn't consider it out of character.

The smile is short-lived, vanishes to leave room for a pained expression. Seeing how important and special Kira is, there's no wonder Athrun's more passionate in connection to him, as if brought to life more strongly, intensely.

Kira is his best friends.

The words a bittersweet and taste a little off, as though they're close enough to the truth to be mistaken for it but not quite the correct phrase. True, he has wondered, after the incident with the attractive stranger, whether it's quite normal for two friends to sleep in the same bed more often than not, and any mere friendship, any regular friendship, would be destroyed by now. But no amount of anger and frustration and corpses can change the fact that Kira is the most significant, most treasured person in Athrun's world, and that's something of a frightening concept. Rather, the way the idea sooths him is frightening.

But there are a lot of frightening things around, and right now he needs to sooth – not himself, but the one for whom he is afraid, the oblivious boy in the hospital bed whose hand he's holding.

He has no idea, really, how Kira suddenly went from fighting against him with the legged ship to lying here, tucked into bed and seemingly peaceful, olive fingers weakly returning Athrun's grip. He was packing in his room when the voice of the radio frequency announced that Yzak had fetched someone for him, an unidentified boy with brown hair. Next minute he's dashing madly towards the correct corridor, telling himself that it can't be, of course it can't, and then it is.

Thank god Kira's injuries are comparatively light, since with the damn holiday the ship's infirmary is practically deserted. Athrun's desperate yells yield only one doctor and two inexperienced nurses, but with his help it seems to be enough. Now his friend is sleeping rather than blacked out, having been half-awake for a few seconds a time already. The doctor says that's a very good sign, and the broken leg is the only wound that's estimated to take more than about ten days to heal.

Now he waits anxiously for Kira to wake up. Anxiously in two ways, since he's both afraid that Kira won't wake up at all, no matter what reassurances he's been fed, and worried about what will happen when he does. They haven't exactly gotten along perfectly the last times they've spoken, and Athrun can't bear to have Kira this close without having his heart.

Now, sitting on his friend's beside and keeping watch over him, Athrun suddenly realizes that he is very sure. "Believes" isn't the right word at all.

xxxxx

Yzak stands with his back almost painfully straight, dutifully though a tad impatiently awaiting the Commander's questions. As expected, Yzak barely had time to collect his newly-won money from Dearka before Le Klueze arrived and, after a moment's consideration, decided to hear Yzak's report before heading over to Athrun and the stranger in the infirmary.

"So, Yzak," he says at length, "I understand you were at the VC411 satellite as per the captain's request."

"That's correct," Yzak agrees. "There's no doubt that a not insignificant battle took place in its immediate vicinity very recently. At least ten GINNs have crashed. However, the only survivor was a boy – semiconscious at best though with only light injuries. Civilian clothing, save the cracked helmet, no identification. I deemed it best to bring him along since the few utterances he made established that he was on quite familiar terms with Athrun."

"Oh?" Le Klueze muses. Yzak doesn't like not being able to see his face. "What exactly did he say? And how did Athrun react to his sudden appearance?"

Yzak feels a faint grimace mar his face as he quotes, "'Athrun, please. Please, Athrun, I love you.' As for Athrun, he was visibly shaken. He called him Kira and seemed extremely worried."

Dearka, who's been standing quiet behind Yzak up until now, gives an incredulous sound.

"Indeed…" is their commander's only comment for a long minute. "Well, I need to make some calls. You two enjoy the holiday. I believe things will be rather quiet for a while, so you might extend your leave until Sunday."

"Sir?" Yzak asks. It's only Thursday, and being a ZAFT pilot doesn't exactly give you lots of free time. Especially not now. "But the Archangel…!"

Le Klueze gives a smile below the mask. "I'm sure they won't bother us. Without the boy they can't handle the G-unit, and without that…"

Shock hits Yzak like a knee in the stomach. He can't breath, doesn't register what Le Klueze says before exiting, doesn't notice Dearka moving until the other boy is standing right in front of him, hands clasping Yzak's upper arms, calling his name.

Yzak thinks he should demand the other let go off him, but he doesn't really want him to, so he says nothing.

Quietly he turns and heads towards the infirmary, Dearka following.

"Oi! Yzak! What are you going to –"

"Not sure," he replies, doesn't stop as Dearka catches his elbow and hangs on to it. He's angry, but not as much as he'd expected to be upon having saved the infuriating idiot who's thwarted him for so long. He's angry that Athrun has fought against his friend, but, weirdly, he isn't exactly angry with Athrun.

In a matter of minutes they've arrived, and Yzak pushes open the appropriate door to find the boy called Kira tucked into bed, coverlets drawn up over his chest and a number of needles protruding from his thin arms. Athrun, hated, haughty Athrun, has both his hands tightly wrapped around the other's left one and a facial expression speaking of worry so intense it almost drowns out the anticipation and anxiety and care also etched on his features.

"So this is the Strike's pilot?" Yzak says, voice coming clear and hash through the uncomfortable confusion inside him. He's really angry now, angry that he's so grateful for Dearka's presence just behind his shoulder. "This is the traitor?"

Betrayer of PLANT and betrayer of friendship, and even so able to escape defeat at Yzak's hands with a distrubing frequency. It's like he's boiling up inside, but unlike usual the feeling is cold.

It's only now that Athrun turns, and it's obvious that his attention remains fixed on the enemy pilot. Bastard doesn't think Yzak's worthy of his interest, huh?

That doesn't seem as significant as it should but is still more than enough to fuel his rage.

"Yzak," Athrun acknowledges. "Dearka."

"Just came by to check on lover boy here," Dearka says, in a way so the words can be interpreted as either a friendly tease or a snide insult. He turns a little, and Yzak belatedly realizes that Nicol has appeared, is standing in closer proximity than he normally would to the dark-skinned blonde, peering into the hospital room. "I'm not talking about you, Nicol," Dearka continues. "Though I suppose you might still be hoping."

"Shut up," Yzak sneers at his friend; there's no time or energy to waste on the pathetic green-haired kid when the Archangel's champion is finally within reach. Stealthy and graceful, still uncertain as to what he aims to accomplish, he advances into the room, is just two or three meters from the edge of the bed when Athrun's full focus finally snaps onto him. Even in battle Yzak has never seen those green eyes so utterly cold with rage.

"If you touch him," Athrun grits out, "if you hurt so much as a hair on his head, I swear I'll kill you."

Athrun has killed numerous people; soldiers do that during war. The difference now, Yzak vaguely reflects, would be that where the blue-haired boy is normally calm and detached, he'd _want_ to hurt and destroy anyone laying hand on the boy in the bed, would take their lives in the same fashion Yzak slaughters whatever gets in his way.

All the while Yzak's on autopilot, ranting and gesturing, but his heart isn't in it. His adversary isn't the comrade he once roughly pushed up against the wall, isn't the person who's been fighting his very close friend, but the someone who's gotten his most precious person back and is not about to let anyone take him away again. Perhaps Athrun is not his enemy at all.

Nicol makes a soft, choked sound behind him, and Dearka's hand closes once more around his arm.

"As much as I'd normally appreciate a good cat-fight," Dearka says in his usual honeyed, sarcasm-laden voice, "we're going to be late if we don't leave now, and as you know my aunt will be much scarier than a battalion of enemy mobile suits if we keep her waiting when she's so generously offered to pick us up. Yzak."

Yzak gives an almost imperceptible nod and allows his friend to tug him away.

xxxxx

Nicol is acutely aware that his face is flushed, his mouth still in the shape of an "o". This last he remedies by biting his bottom lip, but he can't seem to control his blushing. He must be bright red, the way heat pours through the blood being pumped just below the skin providing such inadequate shelter. His heart feels like it has slowed down almost to the point of stopping, but that can't be true since burning redness blazes from his collarbones to his hairline. Strangely, he feels enveloped by a pale chill underneath this blushed surface, like a corpse brushed with paint.

He shouldn't be angrily, weep-readily flushing because of a few unimportant words from Dearka.

He shouldn't be hotly, regretfully blushing because of a scene that is not actually intimate.

He shouldn't be white with dread and despair and hopeless jealousy over same.

He isn't. Of course he isn't. Dearka has said nastier things than that, though less hurtful because they're further from the mark; Nicol knows he isn't a coward, and while the insults sting he has learned to disregard them, for the most part, or at the very least to refuse their doing any serious or long-term damage.

And if this boy, this thick chocolate-colored hair and strained face and delicate hand held so feverishly in Athrun's, if this boy is indeed the Strike's pilot and Nicol's friend's… what, more exactly?

His face is still hot as his mind skimmers over the word _friend_, hesitates forward to _lover_ and finally in uncertainty backs down to and settles for _important person._ He feels his blush intensify even more as a tad of anger gradually works its way into his embarrassment though he refuses to acknowledge any hostile emotion, reminds himself that he has no reason whatsoever to be even the slightest bit mad. Nicol is happy that the Coordinator boy called Kira has abandoned, however involuntarily, his incomprehensible siding with the wrong side and returned to Athrun, to where he obviously belongs.

The worst part is that he actually _is_ happy, cares enough for Athrun to realize that he loves Kira and be glad for him.

It's a bit… scary, almost… to see Athrun this way – the all-encompassing focus, the passionate intensity dominating the room so completely. Of course Nicol has always known that the other boy held a lot of things in, that the controlled demeanor served to obscure all kinds of emotions and brutal strengths; he knows very well that it's not Athrun's father's name that earns the blue-haired youngster perfect scores at everything, classes and battles and whatnot that Nicol has to struggle to pass as the dregs of the elite.

Athrun is the best of the best, and it sort of frightens Nicol how much he has wanted to see it.

There's a sick feeling in his stomach, though, that it's all because of the traitor boy. Nicol will probably never call him that, and not only because he knows Athrun would smash his face in if he ever did, but still…

He takes the hint to leave, however, when the stranger stirs and Athrun turns from giving Nicol an absent, friendly nod to bend over Kira, fingers stroking the half-asleep boy's face, voice murmuring quiet but eager reassurances.

The transport Nicol intended to make use of has already left, and the next one won't depart for another hour or so. Instead he leaves the ship for a restaurant whose owner he knows, where he's welcome to take the seat in front of the piano.The instrument isn't very well made or even adequately tuned, but he caresses its keys with gratitude regardless, finally able to pour out enough emotion to be able to start relaxing a little.

He harbors a lot of emotion for Athrun, but that is probably natural when they're fighting together like this and the green-eyed boy is so great at everything and the only one who's kind to him. It's a bit like he might think of an older brother.

He plays and plays until the snide voice in the back of his mind stops making snide remarks about incest.

xxxxxxxxxx


	4. Rise and Shine

**Aurora Borealis**

**Awake?**

Soft darkness envelopes him, cradling him protectively. He's not sure he wants to leave it, like a child might hesitate to part from its mother's arms even thought it knows itself capable of walking, but it doesn't seem like the tendrils of light breaking through intend to leave him much choice.

Voices, several of them, all young and male – one of them _quite familiar_. Beloved.

It's not just the voice, either, but a touch growing steadily more solid as he surges towards consciousness. A moment he's afraid, so terribly afraid, that he'll lose these distant but so wonderful feelings upon awakening, that they'll fade like the dream he fears them to be.

But that same voice is guiding him ever faster towards reality, growing only stronger, and finally consciousness has fully asserted itself. He keeps his eyes closed yet, hardly daring to breath as he revels in the very real sensation of a slender, callused hand wrapped around his own, soft fingers tracing his face, the warmth of a body washing over him through the coverlet; the so-missed voice still calling to him.

"Kira. It's me. But you know that, right? I promise you, it'll be okay for you to wake up. I'll make it okay. Kira, please, wake up, all right?"

He opens his eyes at that; how could he not?

What greets him is an image taken straight from his dreams – a perfect, smiling, _living_ Athrun so close and so real that Kira can throw his arms around his neck in a strangling embrace without him disappearing. He cries helplessly into the juncture of the blue-haired Coordinator's neck, overwhelmed by the familiar scent inadequately hidden by the sterile smell of… is it a hospital?

The hypothesis seems to fit, not only with the whiteness of the lights and the raw-soft cotton of the sheets around him but also with the several needles embedded in his arms; he notices the slight ache of them when he stretches his limbs to reach all the way around Athrun's warm, _real_ shoulders. They're so slender they border on bony, just like his own, but easily support his arms, which feel to Kira like they weight about a hundred pounds each.

Those IVs indicate quite clearly that something's wrong here, even with Athrun wrapped around him like a comfort blanket and a thousand treasured memories burning through every fiber of his being, but Kira doesn't want to deal, especially not now – he's not sick anymore, but weak and less than entirely lucid. Furthermore, he's woken up hurt in some way or other to escape into and be healed in the loveable sensations now surrounding him countless times before – the soft blue hair of Athrun's neck tickling his palm, and under his cheek the well-worn black-and-violet pajamas that his friend got from his mother and used for years, until they were so smooth they were almost transparent and smelled the same as Athrun's skin. Kira remembers the other leaving them for him to borrow while he went to visit his parents over the weekend once.

"Kira?" The voice is a little different than before, a little deeper and huskier than the infinitely sweet one he remembers. It's still very much Athrun's, however, and chases a heated shudder through his frame. He should gauge the situation, should think and worry, but there's too much emotion, too much elevation and confusion and mad hope to leave any room for that. Which might be just as well, since if he were fully rational he probably wouldn't dare lean up and press a kiss on Athrun's startled mouth, and he very badly wants to.

He's right back in the dreams now, the other taking his entire weight as they kiss frantically. Kira gives a soft whine when his limbs won't cooperate properly, don't have the strength to pull Athrun closer, but he doesn't have to, not when his friend does the pulling for him, holding him so tightly that Kira can't properly decide where one body ends and the other begins. All's right with a world in which Athrun kisses him. At least it is until a low, insistent and obviously faked cough comes from the doorway, pulling Athrun's lips from his own.

Kira's face is hot with color, and Athrun's cheeks too are stained with red, but he isn't certain whether it's a flush brought about by the languid excitement of their kissing or a blush caused by the elegant blond stranger regarding them with what Kira would assume to be a bemused expression. The frozen silvery mask makes it impossible to be certain, and it should creep him out but it doesn't. Perhaps that is because there are so many more tangible things to cause anxiety, such as the white ZAFT commander's uniform below that odd face-covering garment. It might also be because of Athrun's calming presence, the warm grip still strong and steady around him. It dawns on him first now how desperately he has missed it, how large the emptiness inside him that the war filled with pain and horror was.

To drown in that is impossible now, though, something he does no longer have the leisure to allow himself. The return of reality hurts, the loss of his dream, but though one of Athrun's hands might be keeping its reassuring grip around his, the other is used to salute the new arrival. His friend is still sitting on the bed, curled up with him, not attempting to move, but the expensive civilian clothes aren't the jammies that he probably wouldn't even fit in anymore, which were given to him by his mother, who died at Junius Seven.

A small tremor rakes through Kira's suddenly exhausted body. There aren't really any good reasons for war, but the fact that your mother was senselessly murdered is probably as close to one as you can get. Leonore Zala was a kind woman, even to him with his natural parents whom most of other elite Coordinators, like Athrun's father, scorned. He remembers blue hair shorter than her son's, perfume that smelled like daffodils and how she hummed softly on old songs until he and Athrun both fell asleep that one evening when she gave them a ride back to school.

"Commander Le Klueze."

Only Athrun could possibly stay so calm while facing his battle commander with his arms tight around the enemy. Impressive as his impersonation of serenity is, though, Kira is close enough to be aware that the tension in their hold around each other doesn't originate solely from himself.

"Athrun," the blond replies, to Kira's muddled surprise without any animosity or agitation; apparently the man feels nothing but compassionate amusement for the scene they present. "And young mister Yamato, I presume?"

"Yes," Kira says, stealing a quick glance at Athrun's face.

The other's gaze doesn't shift from Le Klueze, but apparently he's conscious of the unspoken question directed at him. "I told him," he informs, "right after Heliopolis, that you were a Coordinator and an old friend of mine. I wanted you here, not shot down."

"Well, I want nothing to do with ZAFT," Kira declares. He was going to say, _I don't want to be here_, but swallowed the words since he can't lie to Athrun. "Nothing to do with the war at all."

"Kira, don't be stupid…!"

"Though I dislike being as crude as Zala-kun, I too fail to realize how you can consider yourself uninvolved. Regardless of motivation, fact remains that you have not only accessed military secrets but also participated in numerous battles, during which you have killed several of our men."

"It's not like… But I just…!" He's angry that he feels the need to defend himself; it's not like he doesn't know what he's done, not like he's had a choice. It's more reassuring than it has any right to be that Athrun doesn't shun away, now that the knowledge hangs heavily in the air that Kira has murdered his comrades, like his mother has already been killed.

"You are Kira Yamato, pilot of Strike Gundam, are you not?"

He bites his lip when he nods, then forces himself to acknowledge it aloud. He can't deny that, and through it he can't deny any of the other things the man has said either. "It's not like I want to fight," he says, miserable and so tired it hurts, but angry too, oh so angry. "And it wouldn't have had to be like that, if you hadn't destroyed Heliopolis, hadn't pursued us. Do you know how many innocent people died? Orb is neutral!"

"Nobody ever wants to," Athrun breathes in his ear. No need to state the expected fact, _Not half as many as on Junius Seven_. Kira has a hard time figuring out how there can be wars if no one wants to fight them, but his friend has never lied to him before. And it's not like he wants to, or like Athrun could wish to. Actually, he even thinks he remembers Mu La Flaga saying something similar, back in the beginning on the Archangel. His mind is sort of fuzzy – again or still, he's not sure. Maybe he's still a bit ill after all. Provided that he's in a Coordinator infirmary he should be cured by now, but then again, maybe they don't treat enemies.

"What's going to happen to me?" he asks, vision tunneling in and out. "How'd I get here? What about the Archangel?"

"First of all," says the blond man… Le Klueze, the one who must be behind most of the attacks they've faced, yet evidently a person whom Athrun respects, "I would suggest you receive some additional medicine to completely defeat that nasty virus. The syringe is on the table to your left, Athrun."

Kira feels himself slump so heavily that Athrun has to lay him down against the rumpled pillows before reaching for the item. He stops in mid-motion at Le Klueze's next words.

"However," the commander says pleasantly, "I should inform you that while the liquid will indeed cure your illness, it will also temporarily lower your capabilities."

"What does that mean?" Athrun snaps with more emotion that Kira would readily show Captain Ramius or Ensign Badguriel.

"Athrun," the blond admonishes lightly, and the blue-haired boy obediently bows his head in apology, but the demanding stare does not waver. "In short, it is a potion that will leave its taker with the abilities of a natural, gradually wearing off for about a fortnight. Provided, of course, that the taker is a Coordinator. A natural would hardly be able to function during the first days."

Kira would laugh at that, if he hadn't been so stunned. The distinction hasn't ever seemed that important to him, never been essential to his self-image. During his childhood it never came up because everyone knew he was a Coordinator; in Orb he wasn't supposed to talk about it but let people assume he was a natural. Then came the war and saw his superior DNA as a reason to put him in the Strike and made him start to hate the manipulation that has filled his mind with so many nightmares.

"Give it to me," he croaks when Athrun merely stares at the opaque liquid with disgust painted over his features.

"I can't," his friend protests. "It's sick."

"We can't very well have him hijack one of our machines and take off," Le Klueze states, blunter than Kira would have expected from someone who obviously spends his life with elegance wrapped carefully around his person. "I would think it kinder to drug him than to lock him up."

Kira could tell him that he would do no such thing, that there's no way in hell the luck that has carried him this far would be enough for such an immense feat, especially when he lacks both back-up and an earnest desire to accomplish the escape. It's so much easier to just stay placid, so much better to remain with Athrun. He's obligated to help his poor natural friends out, but he's so tired, has done what he can. Is it too much to ask to be allowed to simply be here now?

"Give it to me," he repeats. "Please."

"Yes," the commander agrees. "Do it, Athrun."

"He's not an enemy!" Even so, and however reluctant, when Kira starts shaking a little the sharp tip of the needle punctures the skin of his arm and searing cold pours into him. Are they going to kill him after all? The initial reaction soon wears off though, the potion just as efficient as one would expect it to be, made as it is by a species that has bent nature itself at least partially to its will. Less than ten seconds after the syringe has left him Kira is completely clear-headed, all traces of illness washed away. He feels clumsy, though, in mind and body both, as though molasses has flooded his nerves, making the connections between them slow and faulty. _Is this what it's like to be a natural?_ _What is natural in choosing to remain on a lower stage of evolution? _

But perhaps it's not so bad, because now nobody will expect him to do things like fight what should rightly be a hopeless battle, or force-eject himself into empty space. And whatever else has happened to them, his nerves are still quite adept at broadcasting Athrun's nearness. He can't want to leave, even with frustration and fear burning through him like a phantom pain.

"That remains to be seen," Le Klueze says, replying to Athrun's long-ago outburst. "Are you an enemy, Kira Yamato? Which side are you truly on in this war?"

"Neither," Athrun says for him. "He's already told us that!"

"Leave the answers to mr Yamato, please," the blond orders. "Now, I'm aware that you're not properly a part of the EA, but you have fought on their side. I've been told that this is because you are somehow being deceived."

"My friends are on that ship." The comment, _well, you obviously have at least one very good friend here as well_ is so given that he continues before it can be uttered, pushing down any speculation as to just what he and Athrun are to each other anymore. As far as he knows, people don't usually refer to someone they've just frenched as a 'friend'. "Since they're naturals, all of them… It's like… I have to protect them, since they can't take care of themselves."

"Like children," Le Klueze concludes.

"No!" Kira immediately protests. There's nothing childish in what he has seen on the Archangel, no innocence or naivete allowed to prosper. Then again, being a child constitutes of more than being pure. "Yes."

"I have no intention of killing them," Le Klueze informs. "We want the ship, and now that you are no longer opposing our taking it that should be rather easily accomplished with few casualties. ZAFT treats prisoners well."

The commander might be right, Kira muses. The Archangel has remained undefeated, but scarcely, and both the mothership and Zero must be damaged. The idea, while initially revolting, isn't really any worse than the prospect of being trapped on a doomed ship or taken into custody at a base like Artemis. Ironical, that he was treated no better by the side he fought for than he is now by the ones he fought against.

"Is that what I am?" he asks. Couldn't blame them if it is, and in a sense it'd be easier that way. No need to feel a betrayer if in the same grim situation as those he has let down. If he can ever truly be in the same situation as naturals; he's wanted, they're interchangeable. It's a reality he's cursed, but not one he can deny any longer.

"Preferably not," answers Le Klueze. "In view of the drug and Yzak's report, I trust I can leave you in Athrun's care. Just a few more questions, if you'll indulge me. You don't want war; none of us does. However, what started this one?"

"Junius Seven." It's not what he wants to say, not enough to cover it all, but it's irrefutable truth.

"Precisely. Several hundred thousand innocent lives taken without reason. And how did we reply?"

"With the N-jammers." Perhaps, after all, there are good and bad sides in this war somewhere above the dying and humanity and terror.

The blond nods with an air of satisfaction; a teacher giving approval to a student having done his homework. "Exactly. Instead of retaliating, we ensured that no such destruction can ever take place again by preventing not only the naturals but also ourselves from using nuclear attacks. Do you find this reasonable?"

"Yes." Obviously.

"Do you find it reasonable for the EA to declare war on us on account of this?"

"No."

"Then do you find it unreasonable for us to defend ourselves upon being attacked?"

"…No."

Le Klueze smiles again under the mask, an expression so cheery and arrogant it makes Kira's stomach lurch. "Excellent. We seem to understand each other quite well. Athrun, I'll leave himin your care."

Kira stares at his retreating back, sick to his stomach with guilt at how happy that makes him.

xxxxx


	5. My Heart in You

**Aurora Borealis**

**My Heart in You:**

The ride home is quiet, as far as that sort of thing goes. Dearka and Yzak cramped together for several hours is usually a noisy and rather violent affair, but tonight is calm. Of course, Dearka has no doubts that this is largely due to his aunt's presence; his pale friend can behave when he needs to, a fact easily forgotten because he so seldom wants to.

Dearka too, like any well-educated and well-brought up son of an important family, can act pleasant and polite, but where Yzak draws a strict line between brat and gentleman, Dearka enjoys exploring the limits, testing the boundaries of society's rules.

Here in the car, under Aunt Elthman's not-so-watchful eyes in the rear mirror, Yzak does not show his elbow into Dearka's ribs like he normally would when faced with the other boy sliding an arm around him. The blonde smirks; Yzak refuses to learn the subtle ways, is always everything or nothing. Since he isn't beating the living shit out of Dearka, he is a warm, pliant weight allowing itself to be draped over the other. The feel of Yzak is agitated but tired – the first is usual, the other not so. And why indeed, his friend did seem surprisingly taken by the whole Kira deal. Hardly fair, considering that Dearka's the one who lost fifty lovely bucks that could have earned him a whole lot of stuff much more enjoyable than Yzak's cheeky, self-satisfied grin.

That, however, is an expression Dearka is infinitely more fond of than the troubled, weary one presently gracing his friend's face. Of course, most of all he likes to tease…

Yzak tenses but makes no sound as Dearka's fingers push underneath his sweater to probe his side, from sharp hip to thin ribs, searching for the ticklish spots that have to be there somewhere. Dozens of failed attempts to find them would have discouraged a less dedicated man, but Dearka refuses to give up. It just can't be right for Yzak to be completely immune to this when he himself has been totally defeated so many times by a few light touches to ticklish places. Despite mocking him for that, his friend rarely uses that technique, supposedly because it's just too easy, but when he does Dearka is reduced to a howling, begging, laughing, crying, desperate mess in no more than moments.

One of these days he's going to get his revenge for those numerous disgraceful defeats, but though Yzak squirms against his hand, finally catching it through the fabric of his clothes, it seems it won't be today. Which doesn't mean he's giving up. After a little bit of struggling he manages to slip out of Yzak's hard but cloth-hampered grip, and decides to ensure there won't be a new one by sliding his other arm around his friend's front, embracing him completely. He has to lean over rather heavily to do it, but successfully pins Yzak's left hand between their legs (thank god it's such a small car that the backseat's cramped even with just two people in it) and grabs onto the right one, entwining their fingers to ensure the pale-haired boy can't get loose.

He has to fight down laughter as Yzak struggles, furiously but fruitlessly. Dearka has a good grip, and tonight his friend lacks his usual fire.

Fire, indeed, the intoxicating drought of victory is hot on his tongue as Yzak finally jerks under his hand, biting his lip in what can only be interpreted as a desperate means to stop some rather loud and more than rather rude exclamation. Dearka muffles his snickers against Yzak's neck, grateful that his aunt spares them little or no attention. Now, where exactly did he gain such a reaction from? He's about to find out when the tables turn, Yzak having freed the hand pinned between them sufficiently to pinch. Dearka yelps against the soft skin of his friend's neck, getting silver-white hairs in his mouth. Yzak shudders a little as the sudden exhalation hits him just below the jaw but doesn't stop his dirty attack. Army regulations have kept his nails short, but they're viciously sharp all the same, attached to fingers made strong from endless hours of wielding weapons.

Mentally cursing, Dearka tries to regain the upper hand, fingers skimming wildly over Yzak's chest in search of that winning spot, but his ego folds in defeat under his pain as the next pinch hits his bottom.

"Why you…!" he mumbles close to Yzak's ear as his hands still.

"Fucking jerk," his friend replies, he too tilting his head to speak quietly but still be heard. Thankfully he also stops his attacks, rescuing the formerly pinned hand and dropping it in his lap. "I'm not in the mood." That much is plain to see, since if now were anywhere near normal he'd deliver a swift blow and pull away until finally offering an apology in the form of some painkillers or a gruff offer to look over the bruise, not slump against Dearka, silver-white head on the other's shoulder, no attempts to remove the hand still clutched in the darker boy's. Dearka doesn't need much time to decide that he can live with this; his arm around Yzak's back relaxes until his hand rests against the other's stomach, still underneath his sweater, feeling the gentle movement of breathing under his finger-pads.

"What is it?" he asks, still whispering, leaning his cheek against the top of Yzak's head.

At first the other only huffs, but a couple of streetlights later he says, "It was weird. Seeing that… Kira or whatever. Traitor. And how Athrun."

"Yeah." It surprised him too, to be sure. Not the part about the pilot being a fellow Coordinator, but certainly the history with Athrun. "It might've been worse if a natural could handle Strike, though."

Yzak snorts. "Then at least it wouldn't have been a betrayer! How could he turn his back on PLANT?"

Dearka shrugs a little, unsure just why his friend is taking this so much to heart; it doesn't sound like the kind of rants he normally gives about people who've beaten him. "I'm sure Athrun will cure him of that."

The other tenses in his arms, and he can suddenly feel his pulse beating beneath the smooth skin of his stomach. "That's worse! How can he ever be trusted again? He _left_ Athrun already!"

It doesn't seem like the right time for a comment about how Yzak is not in the habit of caring for the blue-haired boy. "I assure you," he says instead, "that it'll snow in hell before you get rid off me."

Fortunately that's when the car stops, his aunt undoing the safety-belt and killing the engine – were it not for that distraction, Dearka is very certain that Yzak would have belted him a good one, audience or not. Now he stops at delivering a furious glare before climbing out of the vehicle.

"Thank you so much for the ride, Ms Elthman."

He has no parting words for Dearka and disappears very swiftly after speaking, but he does pick up the phone when Dearka calls later in the evening. Long experience has taught the darker blonde that his friend is vastly easier to talk to like this, through one of the old-fashioned cells that connects only voices. Deprived of all physical expressions, Yzak's words and tone freely pour out emotion.

It's one of the few things Dearka's never teased him about, and they've probably talked for at least three hours before deciding to meet in the park midway between their houses tomorrow.

Upon arriving there and seeing his friend, Dearka can tell at once that the practically purring Yzak from last night isn't whom he meets. There are good days and bad days, and when they're at home those are clearer than otherwise where Yzak is concerned. The stiff set of his face screams Bad Day at Dearka even before he registers the high neck and long arms on the dark sweater, the baggy pants not wholly covering the rigidity of the steps.

He's met Yzak's mother, a nice lady spoiling her son rotten but having sky-high expectations of him. However, through all the years, he's never ever heard a single word about his friend's father. Which, he thinks sometimes, could perhaps explain a lot of things.

xxxxx

"Kira," Athrun says softly as fast as Le Klueze has closed the door behind him, right hand hovering tentatively in the air. Brown head falls forward in a nod, and they move about until they're sitting face to face, solemnly. Only then does Kira take hold of his hand and place it against his heart, leaving Athrun to do the same with his. The increasing beat below his palm and Kira's fingers pressed against his chest are part of a connection the traditions of which originates from the first weeks they were roommates.

Some silly misunderstanding or other had led to an argument which left them both miserable. "Mom says the truth is the same in almost everyone's hearts, though," Kira confessed, and from that it wasn't far to see if she was right. Athrun has long since lost count of how many nightmares and bruises and holidays apart have been made all right by linking their bodies in this childishly comforting way.

It's sufficient, even now, to wash away the conflicts and close the distances. Athrun feels…sappy. This is admiration and attraction, certainly, but also love without the demand of instincts, in love without the girls and flowers and blushes.

He wonders, briefly, if the goofy grin he suspects he sports is half as endearing as Kira's. Briefly, since he can only admire it during the few moments before he leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a very nice feeling, getting only better, and it's not very long at all until Kira's half-lying against the headboard, Athrun bending over him with an arm at each side of his neck.

Absently, he decides it's a very good thing he's never had any literary ambitions, for any attempt to describe his feelings would contain far too much love and bliss and perfection to be anything but utterly unreadable, but it remains fact that it's more than how they touch, more than the mad beating of both their hearts. Somewhere in the heated kisses lies serenity. _Never knew I was such a would-be poet._ It might have made a greater impact if he could focus on anything but Kira right now.

Kira, who breaks the mood by giving a sudden yelp, startling Athrun from his occupation with his neck. Sure, he was nibbling, but he was certain it wasn't hard enough to hurt. It turns out, when he backs off sufficiently to get an overview of the situation, that his assessment in that was correct – what has Kira complaining is the way he has somehow pressed the IVs too deeply into his arm.

Laughing a little, still too comfortable to be embarrassed, Athrun sits up to let his friend relive the limb in question of pressure.

"Do I still need to keep these?"

"I doubt it." After all, the needles supplying water-based nutrition and pain-killing substances are no longer necessary, and the rest of them are only for measurements, displaying pulse and the like. "Here, let me take them out for you."

Returning the sweet, uncertain smile fluttering over Kira's face with a slightly more confident one of his own, he accepts the obligingly offered arm and puts his nimble soldier's fingers to use reliving it of the needles. After the twin limb's undergone the same treatment, they end up lying face to face on the bed, curled together. There are a lot of words, but Athrun doesn't really pay attention to them; what is offered and accepted, chiefly, is "I love you", and, a little later, "Tell me everything."

"After you left," Kira says, "I didn't stay long. Just to take the last few tests to get the year's exams. My parents, they wanted me home; the war was approaching, I guess, and they weren't very comfortable having me in a military prep. school. They're very pacifist, so Orb was a natural choice. We lived in the capital for a while, then moved to Heliopolis.

"Everything there was so normal it was almost numb. Almost everyone there was a natural, and they thought we were too. I went to this public school, on a technical education. I sort of made friends with some people, too." He gives a small, miserable laugh. "I never dreamed they'd stand up for me even after they found out I was a Coordinator. I mean, I'd known them for a fairly long time, and I never told them, never brought them home, never really… got close. They did, though. Stick with me, I mean.

"It was just an ordinary day, when the war came. I was doing some work for one of the professors and there was this big explosion. Everything was in a panic, and I got separated when I tried to help this visiting girl. Somehow we ended up in the factory where the G-units where, and Captain Ramius was about to get shot, and I called out, and then you were there, though I couldn't believe it actually was you at the time… After, she got into Strike, and pushed me in too, and we were attacked." He takes a deep, shuddering breath; obviously very upset to give away the identity of the Archangel's captain like that. "She couldn't pilot it, so I did.

"That seems to be the way it goes, you know. They can't do it by themselves, and they don't deserve to suffer, so I do it for them. Only time it was different was when Lacus Clyne-san was there. I don't want to think it's because she's a Coordinator too that she understood things the way she did, but… Oh god, she said she was engaged to you." Kira tenses under his hands, voice carrying a note of hysterical laughter – clearly this would be the right moment for brunette to pause and get some sort of explanation. However, it's equally clear that he's much too upset for that, words continuing to pour out of him. For the next hour or so Athrun holds and hugs and sooths a Kira crying out how lonely he was, and how afraid, and angry and frustrated, and I missed you so much, and I couldn't believe I had to fight against you but I suppose you had your reasons and I couldn't just leave them to die not that I'd have probably survived if I did and it was horrible everything was horrible and Athrun please never disappear.

He feels like crying himself when tightening his grip around Kira, pressing the other's face against his neck and whispering lofty, achingly sincere promises of forever into his ear. At length a little wiggling and a soft kiss laid on his mouth announces that his… friend doesn't really seem like the right word… has cried himself out. The purple eyes are still glossy with tears, but Athrun has known him long and well enough to wager that not all of those are due to grief.

"You?" Kira says against his face. He nods, he too needing the reassurance and bond of knowledge between them.

"I was sent to an even more elitist and advanced military school in PLANT, at my father's insistence, though without actually joining ZAFT, at my mother's. It was kind of… very empty, without you there. Then came Junius Seven."

The time that has passed since the incident has turned Athrun's voice to ice when he speaks of it – sharp, brittle, transparent, cold, light, most of all numb. Kira snuggles closer, leaving him uncertain as to whether he feels better because of the increased closeness or due to the fact that his old friend is attempting to comfort him. It works, so perhaps it doesn't much matter.

"I'm sorry," Kira says. "I'm sorry that happened. I'm sorry your mother was there."

She was far from the only person he lost there, but this is not the time for that.

"That was when you joined ZAFT?"

Athrun shrugs a little. Speaking hurts. "My mother was against war, my father for it. She's the one who died, though."

"Your father never liked naturals." The quiet sentence is a number of acute, demanding questions, and Athrun is not in the habit of denying or deceiving Kira.

"He considers them relics from a past era that should be weeded out. I'm a bit more discriminating. I only aim for the destruction of EA. Naturals are no more inherently bad than Coordinators. It seems a tad stupid to entrust them with advanced war-technology, however."

"The people on the Archangel aren't bad," Kira replies.

"They are part of EA," Athrun argues with the same quiet conviction that could be found in the other's tone. "EA isresponsible for Junius Seven and for the war."

"Do you hate them?"

Athrun considers. "No," he says at length. As for now, he doesn't. The cold, hard darkness rising in him sometimes is kept under control, only allowed to come forward every now and then during battle when he needs the strength and ruthlessness it can give. Hatred is consuming and dangerous, and he tries to keep it at bay even when he thinks of his mother and thousands of innocents slaughtered and dumb naturals who are still intent on repeating such tragedies, of Kira gone and comrades dead. In the future, if they fight him long and hard enough or if they steal Kira away from him, then he might very well hate the crew of the Archangel. Now, with them far away and Kira here and caring for them, he does not.

"I'm glad. What happened then?"

"After graduation I was accepted to ZAFT:s elite forces, soon directed to the Le Klueze team. The war went along, you know what that's like." He's short and non-graphic about that, would like to say it's because this isn't the right place for the soldiers he's killed or seen die, for the pain and loneliness in a struggling space, but he carries that with him everywhere – suffice, then, to say that he won't let it out to taint this moment. Taint? It's part of who he is. _A small part, much lesser than the part embracing Kira and loving him in the infirmary now. _"My father furthers his political ambitions, and, eh, he and Mr Clyne, also of high standing in the Supreme Council, decided to engage me and Lacus Clyne.

"It's completely arranged. I hardly know her. I mean, I've met her ten times, tops." He smiles, can't help smiling now even though he probably shouldn't, still not through explaining his betrothal to his… friend? boyfriend? "And now I obviously need to speak to her."

Kira attempts to smile back but is hindered by a yawn. "She was nice," he mumbles. "God, I'm tired."

Athrun casts a glance at the clock on the wall. "Well, it's 9 PM, and it's been a hectic day. Look, how are you feeling? With the potion, I mean." The very idea of it, particularly the idea that it's currently in his Kira, still sickens him, and worry has him fixating the brunette's tired face with a most watchful look.

"It's like… Like I'm going in slow motion, but it doesn't hurt or anything. And either it's letting up or I'm getting used to it, for it was worse at first. I'm fine, Athrun, just a little sleepy."

"Maybe you should go to bed."

"I am in bed. I've been all day."

"You know what I mean."

Kira grins a little, disentangling and tucking himself in beneath the coverlet. "You too?" Ostensibly it's worded as a question, but Athrun thinks it'd be more truthful to call it either a demand or a prayer. Not that he minds, not in the slightest. Stripping down to unbelted pants and undershirt he too takes place in the bed. For one person it's rather large, but with two occupants it's about as narrow as the prep. school beds they used to curl up on.

"How'd I get here anyway?" Kira asks sleepily.

"One of my comrades found you on an abandoned satellite when he went there to investigate an eventual battle against the Archangel. He didn't find any traces of the ship, but you were there, hurt and half unconscious."

"And he rescued me and brought me here, just like that?"

"Apparently you said something to him. Remember?" Because, _yeah right he did. This is Yzak we're talking about_ doesn't seem a proper reply.

"…"

Which probably means that Kira has fallen soundly asleep. Which is a good thing, and what he should try and do too.

xxxxx


	6. Girl Hunter D

**Aurora Borealis**

**Girl Hunter D**

Yzak sort of likes the Memorial Park. Normally he's certainly not one for cheesy flower arrangements and picturesque ponds like those lining the walkways here, and especially not for the monument among the plum trees that has given name to the recreational area, but before the local politicians got their grabby little hands on the Bloody Valentine tragedy this used to be the 4th District Park, which his nanny and his mother both were fond of, a fact that caused his spending countless childhood hours in it. Back then there were more features in it to take a liking to – higher, darker trees that could be climbed, wild birds to be chased, old benches to be jumped over rather than the painfully idyllic scenery of today.

He sort of likes it even so, with all these changes, because he's changed too, and he never really took to his childhood playground in any case.

Now he spots Dearka, who sees him as well after a minute and waves at him from under the bright fake sunlight that reflects off his golden hair and blue sweater and the fountain beside him. The fountain with the half-naked mermaids carved onto it, Yzak has no doubt.

"Hey," his friend calls. Repeating the greeting he pretty much stumbles into the open space around the horrible piece of water art. He could probably catch his balance and remain standing on his own, but Dearka has hurried forward, cheerfulness not entirely covering the worry on his face, and does it for him.

"You okay?" the darker blond inquires. "You don't look so good."

"Fine," he snaps. Dearka's grip hurts, but no more than he's used to, and he allows the other to take most of his weight and lead him to a nearby bench. He seats himself gingerly, his friend plopping down with frustrating carelessness beside him.

"You don't act fine." Dearka employs the serious tone used for missions rather than a friendly or teasing one. Damn him.

"Well, I am." He bites the words out, closes his eyes briefly against the glaring sunlight.

"Sure you are," his friend drawls, sarcasm fairly dripping from his words. Yzak should not be sufficiently taken by surprise to allow him to grab onto his wrist, just above the hand, and squeeze. "This ain't hurting you at all, huh? Or this?"

Reflex smashes his hand into Dearka's solar plexus before the blond can make contact with any other part of him. He watches with a kind of detached horror as his friend predictably topples over, half-lying on the bench and nursing the soreness. Sometimes he suspects that Dearka deliberately keeps himself one notch below his own level, as though to be able to stay close without rivalry. It should annoy him, make him furious even, but instead he gets this warm, fuzzy feeling. Fortunately it's not so strong now – he's rather certain that Dearka's lack of retaliation is caused by lack of ability rather than of intent. It's a full two minutes before he can even breathe without wheezing.

"Sorry," Yzak offers at length. _But you know not to bring that up._

"Jeez, Juhle, learn to pull your fucking punches." He speaks painfully and slowly, for being him, but if he talks it's all right.

"Learn to keep your attention where it belongs, then."

"And where would that be, hmm?" Dearka must have faked some of the hurt, for he's uncurled now, leaning over Yzak, hands on his shoulders so softly that normally he'd be insulted that his friend thought such a weak grip could hold him. Dearka's known him for a very long time, however, and knows when to be gentle. The blonde stares at him, intense and incomprehensible, and Yzak stares back, for a moment frozen by the impossible certainty that Dearka's going to kiss him.

When the blonde leans closer, however, it's far from a seductive motion – instead it's a sharp, involuntary jerk caused by the ice cream cone landing on his neck. Yzak's not sure whether to stare in disbelief or laugh himself senseless at the sight; his friend playing poster boy for incredulity, eyes wide as saucers, melting pink ice cream dripping down his neck and tainting his sweater.

As Dearka turns around the cause of the incident is revealed to be a boy of perhaps six years, previously blocked from Yzak's view by the other pilot's larger frame. He does snicker, now; the kid looks wary but not outright scared, sandal-clad feet shuffling as though ready to bolt should the victim of his slip prove to be dangerous. Dearka, in turn, stares helplessly at the child before sighing and removing the cone, dabbing ineffectively with his hand in an attempt to rid himself off the ice cream still sticking to him. If it had been someone his own size or larger dropping/throwing a cone at Dearka Elthman this way, Yzak does not doubt that the perpetrator would be either scurrying off for some particularly unpleasant cleaning duty or laying flat on his back, but his friend isn't one to intimidate children.

"This yours?" he asks instead, holding the demolished ice cream cone under the kid's nose. Said kid nods in response, and Dearka sighs again. "Well, just hand me those napkins you got with it and I'll give you money for a new one."

The surprised and pleased expression on the boy's face yields no words; any intended reply interrupted by the arrival of a curvy young woman with curly, blond-dyed hair.

"Josh!" she cries at the child before turning to Dearka. "I'm very sorry. My little brother is so clumsy sometimes; I just let him out of sight for a moment, but… Oh, let me do that."

"Thanks," Dearka replies, smiling and letting her take the napkins and dab at his neck and sweater for him. "And it's no problem, really."

The girl looks like she's one of the pictures in Dearka's magazines given life – probably a little older than they are, almost as tall as the Elthman heir, with glossy pink lips and large dove-blue eyes. Enough make-up to have her look like a tramp, and her nipples are visible through the thin, tight white tank top she wears. His friend is impressively stealthy about it so she probably doesn't notice it, but Yzak realizes that Dearka's watching and liking.

He feels like shit. A restless night and general soreness combined with the damn artificial sunlight tried to give him a migraine from the start – aided now by his irritation, they're beginning to succeed. Closing his eyes against the unforgiving radiance he concentrates on taking slow, deep, regular breaths. When he opens them again the female and her brother are gone, Dearka standing close to him, worried again and reaching for his shoulder.

"I'm fine," he repeats impatiently. "You done?"

Dearka laughs. "Yeah, she had to go. I was lucky that kid messed up, though. Oh, don't scowl at me. This is a perfect day for girl hunting!"

"Girl hunting?" Eyebrows disdainfully raised, Yzak proves that Dearka is not the only person here with the ability to imbued his every syllable with so much scorn you'd think they're about to burst. "You brought me here to go girl hunting?"

"Well, actually I thought we might go rowing but you don't seem up for that."

"I can damn well row a boat around a park lake," Yzak states with crisp agitation, bolting up from the bench and regretting it instantly as pain lashes through his head. Refusing to show it or take Dearka's offered arm, he storms off.

Like most grand recreational areas, Memorial Park sports a fairly large lake and a number of small boats that can be hired for travelling it. They split the fair – though Dearka complains that he recently lost a good deal of his fortune through a certain bet – and push off from the shore. It's rather crowded out on the water, and birds and children are providing too much noise for any real conversation; instead they navigate in quiet. Dearka likes this kind of thing, Yzak knows, water and boats, and it's rather nice out here. Warm enough for his friend to dispense with his stained sweater and reveal the green T-shirt underneath. His headache has disappeared, and for a while Yzak is content to push his oar and watch the muscles of Dearka's back moving in front of him. After a while it gets boring, though, and he's tempted to splash the other long before they return to land. There, as an unpleasant non-surprise, a bunch of girls are standing, apparently waiting on them though trying to appear inconspicuous. Yzak sighs. Dearka perks up. It's not the first time females have been attracted to certain pleasant faces and well-trained bodies, and admittedly these represent a higher standard than the fake-blond slut earlier, but… Fuck. Just… fuck.

Yzak might have happily, if delusionally, intended/attempted to walk right past the ogling girls, but he knows from experience that Dearka sees it differently, and so when the horde closes in around them he's trapped. For twenty minutes he endures, even occasionally contributes to their mindless chatter and shameless flirting with primarily Dearka, but enough is enough. And, when all is said and done, he prefers not to hit girls, so…

"You look kinda… I dunno, gay," one of them says to him. "Some people like that, though."

With a very nasty smile plastered on his lips, Yzak slides his arms around Dearka's waist, letting one hand rest on a hipbone, the other suggestively trail up his chest. "Yeah, some people like it," he agrees, speaking lazily against his friend's neck before pressing a kiss on it. "And some just _love_ it. Huh, hon?" Long eyelashes can be a good thing, at least when you need to bat them at your comrade-turned-pretend-lover.

Dearka seems to finally get over his shock and turns his face towards Yzak, a questioning look morphing into a challenging one as his right arm wraps around his friend, returning the embrace. His other hand fastens a few strands of silvery hair behind Yzak's ear before running along his jawline, tilting his face upwards. Yzak decides not to think about the disturbing fact that he doesn't have to fake the sharp intake of breath caused by how the blond's fingers delicately trace his lips. "Yeah," Buster's pilot agrees softly, "some of us just love it."

The idea of kissing returns, frightening and tempting, and maybe, just maybe, this has something to do with why Yzak has never been that keen on girl hunting. He's returned to the present by the still-present horde of girls, some of which are squealing, some of which look perfectly grossed out. In other words, he still needs to get rid off them.

"So," he husks, loosening his grip to let his hands glide downwards over Dearka's hips, "what do you say we go somewhere more private?"

"Sure." The word is practically breathed down his throat, the blonde tensing noticeably under his touch. Ignoring the shocked audience, Yzak grabs Dearka's hand and drags him away. They walk fast and in silence until they've left the girls behind; even when they arrive at the edge of the park neither of them disentangles his hand.

"That was some show," Dearka says at last.

"I had to pay you back for that car ride somehow," Yzak replies. He probably wouldn't believe himself.

"I thought that was what the pinching was for."

"That only made us even."

"And of course you had to win. As always."

"Well, isn't it proper that the one in the right prevails?"

Dearka snorts. "Let's just go eat. I have the perfect place in mind, come on."

Shrugging, Yzak lets his friend decide direction and lead him by the hand. From Memorial it's not very far at all to the restaurant district, and Dearka's sure stride brings them to one of the main pedestrian streets. Several of the establishments lining it are fine, fashionable ones in which the Duel pilot has dined with his mother; he remembers especially liking the traditional sushi house they're presently passing by. When at length they stop, at the far end of the street, Yzak is momentarily puzzled – the only building here is run-down and imbued with the stench of fried fat, crowned by a neon sign declaring it to be the house of "Punk Pizza".

"No way," he declares when Dearka opts to enter. "You're kidding. There's no way in hell I'll go in there."

Fifteen minutes of nagging, begging and teasing later he finds himself forcibly dragged into the establishment, which is every inch as bad as the outside led him to suspect. The grey tile floor is slippery with water from the frequent mopping, which is doubtlessly necessitated by the sloppy and disgusting table manners of the customers, a majority of whom are noisy teenagers. Loud music barks from the speakers fastened on the ceiling. In short, it's a very far call from the civilized and enjoyable restaurants he likes to visit and he can't believe he let Dearka drag him into this. Unfortunately the noise is so overwhelming that he can't be sure whether his friend is honestly oblivious to his protest or shrewdly hears and ignores them. Another day he might have attempted to flee, but he isn't up for any kind of physical struggle. Accordingly, five minutes later he's sitting at a free table, mercifully far from the speakers but sprinkled with pieces of salad and spilt soda, waiting for Dearka to order; too disgusted to study the menu, Yzak gave his friend enough money to cover anything he might get for him.

It feels like it's years before the blonde collapses into the chair opposite him, placing a number of colorful cardboard boxes on the plastic table.

"What is it?" Yzak asks, loathe getting in closer contact with the so-called food.

"Coke for drinks," Dearka says, pausing to push a paper mug filled with the brown liquid towards each of them, "a pizza for me," the largest carton is opened, "and a burger for you."

Yzak accepts a small, lukewarm package of thin paper which, upon unfolding, reveals a sticky, very unhealthy-looking assembly of bread, meat and a few unidentifiable somethings that does anything but stir his appetite. He is rather hungry, though, and it's here and paid for and he's not likely to get anything else. Fortunately it doesn't smell half as bad as the pizza Dearka is eagerly devouring. For someone having successfully attended so many dinner parties, the Buster pilot shows an astonishing lack of manners, pouring food and drink into a mouth not as closed as it should be. Kicking him in the shins below the table seems the only right thing to do, at least until Dearka's pained squirming transforms into something dangerously close to playing footsie. Yzak chokes on a bite as his body flares to life. It is as though it carries a memory of its own and is now, prompted by his friend's leg against the inside of his thigh, reliving every indecent touch Dearka bestowed on him in the car last night, his hands burning with the sensations he stole himself in the park among the girls. Gulping semi-cold coke isn't very effective as a means to quench the firestorm racing through him, but it's the best he can do.

Thankfully, when they leave the diner the unwelcome thrill has abided. Probably it was just some fluke hallucination brought about by the unhygienic odors from "Punk Pizza". Admittedly, that doesn't provide a satisfactory explanation as to why, out in the fresh air on the streets, he's still watching Dearka like this, stealing glances at how his blonde hair curls around his ears and at how his hips move when he walks.

"Kinda cold, now," his friend muses. "My place?"

Technical equipment dominates Dearka's room; there's a gigantic screen connected to both TV, computer and numerous consoles, there are speakers and tons upon tons of video games and CDs. While the black computer chair fits in, the bed looks slightly of out place – soft and messy where the electronics are neat and metallic. In the corners rest heaps of old pizza cartons, candy wrapping and empty soda cans. Tucked in underneath the bed are several stacks of magazines, some about technology, some featuring girls.

Sitting on the floor, they each grab a console and prepare to fight to a virtual reality death. Ironical, that they play a game about battle ships and robots and death when on a break from very real lethal struggle. While the Play Station loads they talk, shuffle, seemingly as an excuse to touch, and when the blond leans over him to get something – somehow they end up face to face, very close. Yzak has his back against the edge of the bed and is halfway sitting in Dearka's lap, an arm slung around his shoulders. Their mouths aren't quite in contact, but only millimeters apart, so that they exchange air with every breath. His eyes fall shut, hand clutching the other convulsively, as the tip of Dearka's tongue traces his lips in an echo of what his fingers did earlier but so much _more_, slowly gliding over moist, eager skin and leaving flames in its wake. There's a hard, painful twitch in the pit of his stomach.

It takes the combination of his own muffled curse as he puts weight on an arm that really shouldn't have to stand for that just now and the insistent beeping of the Play Station to break them apart. Through his strained swallowing he notices how Dearka's chest heaves with his almost-panting.

They play in quiet. By the time they venture down to the empty, spotless kitchen to grab a snack for dinner Yzak has managed to force the incident out of his immediate thoughts, and Dearka too has mostly reverted to his normal humorous self.

As years together have taught them, it's hardly even a question of Yzak spending the night. He doesn't like going home when it's not just him and his mother, and that's a rare occurrence, what with both their full schedules. Mr and Mrs Elthman are usually absent as well, and Dearka sleeps better with someone else's breathing to complement his own.

The only uncertain factor is who lies where. Normally when someone spends the night at a friend's house he sleeps on the floor, but the Buster pilot insists that's a morbidly bad idea. Knowing exactly what he's referring to and unwilling to discuss the subject, Yzak chooses not to delve into whether or not that's a correct assessment of the situation and flat out refuses – it'd be weird, he claims, if he were to take Dearka's bed and leave the other to the floor of his own room. Since much of the comfort in this arrangement comes from the closeness, the suggestion of utilizing one of the guestrooms doesn't even come up, and, since they're both stubborn, in the end they both sleep on the floor, having torn mattress, pillows and blankets from Dearka's abandoned bed.

Curling up around the still-present ache from yesterday eve and the ticklish sensation evoked by the other's half-naked presence, Yzak turns his back on Dearka and slips into slumber surrounded by the familiar soft snoring he wouldn't exactly classify as comforting.

xxxxx


	7. Not Recommended

**Aurora Borealis**

**Not Recommended **

He probably ought to feel ashamed, now. After all, he's _rather_ certain that it's not in the recommendation book to have sex with your male, engaged friend-turned-enemy less than twenty-four hours after your reunion. It's probably very dumb for a whole lot of reasons.

Then again, it's not as though Kira has ever read some stupid book about military guidelines concerning how to behave in seriously weird and angst-filled situations, and it's certainly not as though he regrets it. Actually, he feels better this… well, since the clock reads 1:05 PM it isn't exactly morning anymore, but it feels like it since he's still in bed… than he has for a long time, the last few hours excluded. Warm and comfortable he buries deeper into the bedclothes, snuggling more tightly against Athrun. The fact that the contact is skin-to-skin, being that they're both quite nude, hunts a blush over his face, filling him with embarrassment, joy and excitement.

Brushing blue hair out of his still sleep-tainted face, Athrun smiles at him. "Morning, again."

"You too," Kira purrs.

The other's arms firm their hold around him even as green eyes go distant and their owner speaks into the pillow. "Sorry. I probably shouldn't have."

"What shouldn't you have?" He's very grateful that the sleepy, loving warmth keeps most of the heavy cold in his stomach at bay – Athrun's voice is too serious, by far.

"Taken advantage of your situation."

Unable to decide whether to be hurt by the causal dismissal of his consent or touched by the care for him, he settles on mild seriousness. "You did nothing you shouldn't have. I love you in spite of the situation, not because of it." Though perhaps some of the eagerness to have Athrun 'take advantage of' him again is triggered by the invading thoughts of the Archangel – it's essential absolution to have something safe to cling to and be absorbed in while remembering the crying and retching and the fight and losing control and leaving his charges to what, for all his hopes, might be an unbearable fate. "Kiss me," he mumbles, inching his face closer to his… lover's, rather than friend's. The thought brings heat to his cheeks. "Kiss me," he says, and Athrun does.

He does, and it's gorgeous, it's everything it's supposed to be. "Love you," he whispers into Kira's mouth, into a slow, sweet, sultry kiss that's more of an affirmation than an invitation. Even so they might have quite possibly proceeded to spend this day as well in bed, had the Strike pilot's stomach not chosen that moment to growl.

Athrun laughs as he releases him, leaning over the edge of the bed to fish for his clothes. "I guess it was quite a while since you ate," he says. "I don't think you should try walking on that leg just yet, and with the holiday the place is practically deserted – mind waiting here while I get us some food?"

"I'll be fine." They share another kiss before the blunette leaves, semi-decent now in loose pants and unbuttoned shirt. In his wake Kira stretches slowly, inspecting the little room more thoroughly. The fact that's it's located in a hospital ward shines through the whiteness of the decor – white walls, white ceiling, white sheets. Even the floor is only a pale grey, and what little furniture there is also carries soft pastel hues or shining metal sparkles. The door Athrun exited through and left slightly ajar leads, from what Kira can see, into a non-descript hallway, and the only other door is probably the bathroom's. Very likely that too will be pale. What clothing his lover left on the floor constitue the only splotches of color – the pajama he himself woke up dressed in are as white as everything else. Speaking of that, he probably ought to take the opportunity to get dressed. He's somewhat reluctant to, though; it wouldn't be just putting on clothes, it would be to cover the skin Athrun has touched.

In the end he smiles at his own folly and reaches for the pajama. Fortunately it's no far away – if it were, he might have had some trouble reaching it since he can't exactly move freely. His broken leg doesn't precisely hurt, and the glue-like bandage surrounding it is a good deal suppler than the gigantic white caging Tolle had to endure when he broke his arm, but it's still a struggle to get into the pants.

Despite how long that takes him, how slow every one of his movements seems to be after ingesting that potion yesterday, it's a good while before Athrun returns. Just shy of thirty minutes is rather a long time to fetch breakfast, and it feels longer when you're sitting in a somewhat-hostile military ship waiting.

Upon finally arriving the blunette carries a tray containing the kind of treats Kira has longed for during his entire stay on the poorly stacked Archangel but that now appear completely irrelevant, isn't at all what he needs. Clearly sensing his agitation, Athrun hurries to put the meal down on the bedside table; Kira throws his arms around his waist as fast as he's close enough, shutting his eyes against the other's chest but unable to stop a few hot tears from slipping through. It isn't until after Athrun has twisted around to embrace him in return and is cuddling him and asking what's wrong that he stops to think about how pathetic a reaction this is.

_Gods, I've fought battles and been moments from dying, and here I am, crying because I was left alone for half an hour?_

Probably it has something to do with tensions easing, Athrun acting as his safety and making it all right to vent. _I'm okay with struggles, I can handle mobile suits and commanders, if it's with him. But I can't be without him anymore._

"Don't let me go," he husks.

"I won't," Athrun assures him, "Not ever."

Kira tightens his grip around him. _Me either._ After that he feels better, sufficiently so that he'd probably have been embarrassed about the few teardrops still clinging to his cheeks were it now for the utter tenderness with which Athrun brushes them away.

"Are you all right? Good, then how about some breakfast? I don't know if you still like this, but…"

"I do," he smiles, accepting a bowl filled with cereal of a brand he loved when they attended prep. school together. "I can't believe you have all this stuff on the ship, though. That's why you took so long?"

On the Archangel they didn't even have water to spare, but apparently it's not too much trouble to find fruit and different kinds of bread on a ZAFT vessel.

"We don't normally," Athrun admits, "but we're currently in port and fortunately it seems the remaining staff went to shop for foodstuffs yesterday." His face grows serious. "I was delayed due to a call from the commander."

Kira pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "What did he want?" Must be something urgent, if he contacts Athrun about it after speaking to him just yesterday. _Don't let it be the Archangel. Don't let it be fighting._ If it is, he can't even help him, not with the potion incapacitating him. For the first time he genuinely hates the drug.

"About…" His lover hesitates. "You're standing isn't exactly simple. You know, we normally do question prisoners. Sometimes roughly. And you sided with the naturals and traveled with the legged ship. We're very lucky that Commander Le Klueze sees things the way he appears to."

"Explain," Kira tells him, a thick knot in his stomach. "Everything."

"For starters, Le Klueze has evidently decided that he values the possibility of your support more than any information he might get from you through hearings and what political points could be gained from punishing you as a traitor. Apparently he feels the best way to deal with the situation is to leave you with me and hope that the bond between us will draw you over to this side. Unfortunately the commander is subservient to the Supreme Council, so he can't contradict them if they should choose to take the matter into their own hands. However, he is on good terms with most of them, particularly my father, which is a very good thing, cause it was a long time since I even tried to play in politics, and I don't think I have a lot of influence over father, who will not take kindly to you. Considering your skill he might have been willing to overlook your association with the naturals, were it not for the fact that his carefully arranged engagement between me and Lacus Clyne will be called off. He… really won't be happy about that."

Remembering the tall, haughty man nodding approval at Athrun's grades, Kira asks, "What do you expect he'll do?"

"I'm not sure. He's been more aggressive since mother's death, and he's rising in power in the Council. He might not do anything at all. Or he could demote me, disown me, kick us both out of PLANT. I don't think he'd do that, but there's also the possibility he'd court martial you."

Kira's pretty sure he should have a reaction to that.

"The commander suggested I speak to the Clynes," Athrun continues, "which, however uncomfortable, I must admit is a good idea. Though he probably won't remain Chairman, mr Clyne is still very influential and has a considerably friendlier attitude towards people in general and naturals in particular than the majority of the Council. Given her popularity as a singer, Lacus too has a lot of say when she chooses to use it, and she spoke very kindly of you after she was returned from the Archangel. They'll probably be inclined to help you, but I'm not sure how much it's safe to disclose about, well, us. I have no idea how Lacus will feel about it, but it's not as if she likes me or anything. Her father will probably be disappointed, though."

Kira attempts a shaky laugh, but swallows it along with his next bite. "What are we going to do?"

A determined cast to his face, Athrun gives him and steady look and a reassuring smile. "You are going to finish your breakfast and concentrate on getting better. Things'll turn out all right. And anyway, with you having taken that potion, nobody can expect you to make any final decisions and it's physically impossible for you to provide any help. For now, we'll just make sure you're okay. I got the impression I'll remain relived of my normal duties for a while after the holiday too, so we'll stay together."

"There isn't a catch?" There has to be; just being with Athrun, potential consequences so far off that they can be ignored, that's too good to be true.

"Nothing worse than Nicol." And that can't be very bad at all, judging by the smile in his lover's voice. "Honestly, it's going to be all right."

And for the first time since the explosions in Heliopolis – no, for the first time since the whirling cherry blossom petals and the loneliness only slightly eased by the green faux-bird in his hands, Kira allows himself to believe that.

xxxxx

Nicol has a habit of being a tad shy at odd occasions; he's not natural or comfortable about showering with strangers, or walking into their rooms. He can certainly deal with it, but considers himself fortunate that he hasn't yet had a roommate. Dearka and Yzak are an obvious match, and regardless of any additional sentiments Nicol knows he would have had to suffer through hell if he'd been paired with either of them. When Rusty died he anticipated sharing with Athrun, but that will probably not happen now, at least not the way he envisioned.

However, shyness notwithstanding, though he would definitely knock before entering someone else's room, a hospital is a somewhat different matter. Furthermore, he's here on the Commander's instruction, and he's been told that Athrun knows he's coming, and the door isn't properly closed or anything, so he just nudges it open.

Immediately upon taking in the scene he wishes he hadn't, that his often cursed shyness had prevented him from entering without making his presence known. _At least I can probably back away without them noticing I was here and approach anew with proper discretion._ There's no explanation as to why he doesn't, instead remaining frozen in the doorway and staring at the two people on the bed. Who are… what to call it? Nicol isn't one to speak less than courteously and with a touch of formality, and so feels utterly foreign with the phrases presenting themselves.

_Snogging_ sounds crude and casual, completely at odds with the fine, tender movements. _Frenching_ just makes him associate to the horrid French porno movie he walked in on once. What he's left with to describe it is _kissing_, and while it's certainly true the word doesn't cover it.

_Making out_, he thinks suddenly, illogical relief flooding him upon finding the proper terminology. _They're making out._

One of them, he can't tell whom, gives a soft, whining sound, and he realizes he ought to either leave or let them know he's here. The first option seems vastly easier, but something akin to anger hinders him from giving into temptation. Instead he swallows and knocks on the doorframe.

Athrun whips around to face him, tension easing only minutely upon recognizing the visitor. Nicol feels empty, detached. He registers the presentation (Kira, this is Nicol Amarfi, remember I told you about him? Le Klueze apparently sent him to chaperone us so I won't tell you any big secrets, sorry you have to waste your holiday on us Nicol, my comrade, plays piano, sure you'll get along, Nicol this is Kira Yamato, know each other since prep. school, blah, blah, blah, can I trust you to let me tell people about…well? pretty sure Le Klueze knows, of course I don't mean you should lie to him in either case but kinda delicate situation) the way he used to sit through certain lessons – hearing, noting, but not emotionally digesting.

Even as he manages the correct answers (it's no problem, and anyway it's Le Klueze's orders, nothing you can help, hope you're feeling better Yamato-san, all right, Kira, just Nicol is fine too, of course it's up to you what to tell whom _(I do trust and care for you)_ Athrun) he's ignoring his comrade and examining the stranger.

Supposedly, in an abstract way, he can see why one might find Kira Yamato cute. His thin, girlishly sweet face, however, is the least part of it; the true appeal lies in his tender, needy, anguished clinging. Now he releases his hold on Athrun, though, and sits up straight and proud to offer Nicol a small bow. Strong too, then, despite how much like a natural he looks. Not that Nicol believes that all non-Coordinators are completely inferior creatures; they have the right to live, certainly, but it is undeniable fact that they are less qualified in almost every regard. They need to be protected, kept unable to hurt themselves or others. Well, that really only applies to the EA, at least the last part; he's well aware that theoretically it makes no difference to one's moral whether one's genes have been manipulated.

This bandaged boy across the room definitely looks like he needs someone to care for him, and his natural coloring, so unlike his own green or Athrun's blue hair, only reinforces the impression. And yet, the Blitz' pilot reminds himself grimly, this untrained, natural-raised person had the strength to fend off not only Nicol himself but also other elite pilots.

He closes his eyes as Athrun smiles his thanks at the discretion he has promised and leans forward to kiss Kira again, and wishes intensely that he didn't feel as weak and pathetic as Dearka and Yzak say he is, the former in words and the other with his lack of same.

The absolutely worst part is when he helps Athrun deposit his lover in a wheelchair, when Kira's small nod of gratitude tells him he ought really to like the injured boy. Biting his lip, he decides that he _is_ going to go with that feeling, remain as honest to himself as he can – decides that he won't let his weaknesses prevail. He is to be strong, so much so as to not let them guess what an effort it costs him.

xxxxx


	8. Marks of Life

**Aurora Borealis**

**Marks of Life**

Nicol hates this, he really, really, does. Maybe his subconscious was right and he is in love with Athrun, because there's really no other way to explain his emotional state, and he's never used to be very insincere, not with others and not with himself.

Because of that he's left with no way around it; he hates watching Athrun and Kira all wrapped up in each other, laughing and smiling and touching, whispering and hugging and just looking at one another in that blasted silly-stunned manner. He hates how on the surface the conversation is between all three of them when in reality he's nothing but a bystander listening to hidden nuances clear and obvious to the two of them. Every normal word somehow gains a special meaning though being exchanged between lovers, and Nicol is helplessly cut off. He feels like a character from an old story he read once, a poor lonely streetwalker standing outside the window and regarding happy, loving company on the far side of the glass.

It isn't so much the references to memories he has no part of, talk of their mutual experiences at the prep. school and from holidays spent together – no, that could happen with anyone and doesn't bother him greatly. What eats at him is how even conversation about the ship they're on or replies like "can you hand me that piece of bread" turns into something intimate and incomprehensible. It is as though he's right back during that first afternoon when he crowded the doorway to Kira's hospital room with Yzak and Dearka, and this time he doesn't need the Buster pilot's remarks to feel embarrassed and alienated.

Worst of all, yes clearly worst of all, is when they reach a subject about him and he's still not part of it.

"You play the piano?" Kira inquires politely.

"Yes," Nicol nods.

"Really well," Athrun adds, and from the way Kira looks at the blunette it's clear that he's paying closer attention to the mouth forming the words than to what is actually said.

He remains a bystander as they put Kira in a wheelchair and give him a tour of the ship, walking beside them like a stranger. Of course they can't exactly venture to the machine hall or any of the technical equipment rooms, and so have to satisfy themselves with corridors and their rooms. While Athrun ventures to the far side of a doorstep to get some fresh clothing, Nicol stands awkwardly beside Kira before allowing his knees to buckle, practically falling into a sitting position on what has to be Rusty's old bed. Ordinarily he might have taken the opportunity to choose Athrun's, but right now the idea of occupying the blunette's sleeping area strikes him as unbearable. He doesn't want the other's sheets under his palms, doesn't want to breath in the faint residue of his comrade's scent lingering to his beddings or see a stray piece of blue hair clinging to the pillow.

Instead he's sits desperately erect on a dead boy's bed, the almost painful cleanness of which announces that it's not used, never will be used again by Rusty, announces it so clearly that Nicol's chest contracts, aches. If it were not for Heliopolis, his comrade would still be alive and well. Had things gone according to plan, he would be Strike's pilot now, instead of the boy with stick-thin limbs only partially obscured by bandages and adorned with purplish bruises. Most of those are familiar in placement and size, the kind of marks you inevitably get from being thrown around inside the cockpit during battle. Nicol has ample practice with these, despite strappings and protective space suit, and he experiences a twinge of sympathy for the poor guy who's been through more than his share of rough piloting conditions. He himself has never fought in a mobile suit in civilian clothing, nor against so many opponents or with so little training, and even so his shoulders are decorated with a number of colorful bruises from last time he operated Blitz.

What disturbs him, though, catches his attention and doesn't let it escape, what he's rudely staring at with some kind of sick fascination, are the marks he remains convinced are not caused by struggle. Nothing in the cockpit that he can think of would leave that kind of delicate bruises upon impact. Several years in locker rooms and lounges among other male teenager have, however, taught him that love bites might.

It sickens him that the signs of affection should bother him more than those of war, but he's gotten depressingly used to the latter, and somehow can't help but feel a little like Kira deserves them. He has done nothing worse than Nicol himself, but then Nicol isn't unhurt either.

Even so his stomach cramps with the sudden realization that he doesn't hate the pilot of Gundam Strike. Yesterday eve he was ashamed to wish he'd been able to kill the other; now he is uncomfortable with not wanting to harm him. More disconcerting still is the continuation of that pondering – _all those that I have taken down, would I have felt compassion for them as well, could I have sat with them like this, if circumstances were different? Had I, given the slightest possibility, grown to see them as humans, with all the care and protectiveness that that implies, if I'd spent just the briefest time with them?_

Looking down, he contemplates his hands, which lay placid on his knees. Small, slender fingers the pads of which are as intimately familiar with piano keys as with keyboards and triggers. Since he was little he's been regarded as a peaceful child, yet here he is, an elite solider, so different from the diplomat his mother envisioned that he would become. Those ideas he abandoned the day Junius Seven fell, when he realized that in this case being a warrior is to be a diplomat, since it means talking to the EA in the only language they seem capable of comprehending.

Awkward silence interrupted by the blunette's return, he puts his musings on hold and politely averts his eyes as Kira exchanges the pajama top, which lack several buttons, for one of Athrun's shirts. Rather than a piece of the standard issue uniforms it's civilian clothing, of pale rose silk and a little too long for Kira, whose inexperienced and unconcerned fingering on the material leads Nicol to once again conclude that one has to be rich to fully recognize expensive things. He's fairly certain that no one in the Le Klueze team has ever owned a single piece of clothing bought for less than a hundred dollars.

Conversation picks up again but remains strained, flowing easy only when it's between either Athrun and Kira or between Nicol and Athrun. Knowledge of their respective roles in the war lies heavy between him and the brunette, and he doubts it can be breached without common experiences. The only such they have are of battle, and Kira hasn't yet said a word connected to that subject. For now, Nicol won't bring it up either. Eventually the conversation drifts to school, something they've all attended.

"I remember being kind of surprised when I met your parents," Athrun says. "That they were so pacifist and natural, though they'd sent you off to a Coordinator school with military overtones."

Shrugging a little, Kira replies, "I assume they figured that enrolling me in an academy for naturals wouldn't have been…"

His voice trails off, and apparently both Nicol and Athrun are too polite to fill in any of the expressions that present themselves, such as _challenging_, _educational_ or _worthwhile_. Instead they exchange light-hearted anecdotes – which, as they should have anticipated, leads to questions about what, more precisely, they do now that they've left school.

"I pilot the Blitz G-unit."

_Something_ flitters over the brunette's face, and violet eyes stare into Nicol's. Evidently he is no longer the only one experiencing flashbacks from the battle at Artemis when looking at his then-opponent.

"The other two?" Kira asks at length. "The ones operating Duel and Buster?"

"Yzak and Dearka aren't here," Athrun says. "I assume they're spending the holiday together or with their families. They're our age too."

"When are they coming back here?" Nicol inquires. "Will they meet…?"

"I hope we'll be elsewhere by the time they return," Athrun replies, face somewhat tight.

"Athrun?" Kira's tone betrays a beginning worry. "Why? Where? Wasn't it one of them who brought me here?"

"Yes," the blunette concedes. "I suppose Yzak did do that. However, neither he nor Dearka is exactly the easiest person to get along with."

_If you touch him, if you hurt so much as a hair on his head, I swear I'll kill you._

"If you continue to feel better, I thought we might visit the Clynes tomorrow. After that we'll know more. All right?"

Kira nods, and Nicol echoes the motion. "I assume I'll be coming with you?" he says.

"If Commander Le Klueze doesn't change your directives until then, I'm afraid so, yes," Athrun replies. "I suppose either of us might inquire about it; I need to call and make sure Miss Lacus and her father are home anyway."

"I'll do it," Nicol volunteers, wondering whether he will be required to accompany the others to the Clyne mansion, to watch his love interest not-precisely-break-up-with his fiancée in favor of another boy. Given how much their commander appears to trust Athrun he might consider it unnecessary with an escort; then again, that probably wouldn't look so good.

When the day draws to a close Nicol has to make some decisions. He shouldn't have to, really – he's here on Le Klueze's orders, to observe the other two and not leave room for any confidences on part of his comrade. He's also (and has started to realize that it wouldn't completely surprise him if the commander suspects it; after all, even dense _Dearka_ has teased him about it forever though he himself and, fortunately, Athrun too, remained oblivious) rather in love with a certain blunette. How ironical isn't it to find that the boy of his dreams certainly wouldn't reject him for being gay through the revelation that he already has a boyfriend?

No, it isn't much of a decision to make. Smiling tightly he says his goodnights and leaves the two of them in the infirmary room. The sudden impulse to kick the wall in frustration as he walks back to his own bed startles him.

xxxxx

Opening his bleary eyes, Dearka sees a whole lot more Yzak than he did when he closed them. Given the fact that the other boy is practically sleeping in his arms, this is hardly surprising, nor is it strange that he also feels and smells more of Yzak than he's used to.

Although the question of _how_ they came entangled like this, curled like kittens in their nest of blankets, is answered by a simple few tosses and turnings, the _why_ remains, and Dearka has no doubts that his friend's demands for explanations will be both loud and rude. Knowing this, and fairly uncomfortable with the situation himself, the Buster pilot opts to discreetly scoot away. Not unusually, however, it seems Yzak has his own ideas, and the escape is cut short by the arm and leg thrown over his retreating form. Mumbling something mostly incoherent that appears to end with "…rka", the silver-haired boy snuggles closer again, and Dearka has little choice but to let him.

Okay, so this is weird, but so was pretending to make out in the park yesterday, and that turned out rather well. It's nothing he can't handle. He's half anxious, half turned-on, but he can handle it.

Yzak may yell at him later (unreasonably, since Dearka is no more guilty than he is, but Yzak is always unreasonable, to the point when it can almost be considered part of his charm) but right now all he hears is the soft sounds of the other's breathing and the pounding of his own pulse. There's also a distinct possibility that Yzak may hit him, but he's suddenly very certain that any contact with his friend's knuckles will be a cheap price for the present sensations; heavy warmth draped around his side, half atop him, soft hair tickling his neck. The thin fabric of the pajama Yzak favors and normally borrows while sleeping over fails to obscure the bold, bony lines of his thin body; were it not for the layer of muscle, he'd look anorectic.

Dearka lets his hand trail down the other boy's back, excruciatingly softly since he's well aware almost any touch will probably hurt. Perhaps he ought to take a look later – the bruising must be fairly spectacular for Yzak to have allowed himself to falter on account of it yesterday. Too bad he's so set on the slightly too large, baggy black nightwear – if he like Dearka had kept to the standard undershirt and boxers issued with the uniforms, the view would be a lot clearer. Still, the thought of arrogant, showy Yzak being shy about mere nudity is amusing, especially since it's a misconception on part of the Duel's pilot that the pajama he presently hides in is his comrade's. Dearka wonders, just wonders, who would be the most shocked if his mom ever found the nightwear she's been looking all over the place for. The idea of his friend in his mother's pajama should be weird but is kind of sexy.

While he manages to keep his chuckle from leaving his mouth, it still makes his chest shake – just a little, but enough to have Yzak stir. Holding his breath, Dearka watches his bedmate lift his head and focus two sleepy blue eyes on him. It strikes him how beautiful his companion is – not the photo-model looks or the way the light paints him a revelation of warm colors as much as the indefinable expression characterizing him as… just Yzak. One of his teeth has a jagged end, from when a punch broke off a little part of it long ago; Dearka remembers his eight-year-old self wondering how anyone his age ended up in a fight that serious. Now, knowing his friend as well as he does, he can very well image how that might have happened, but has also started to suspect that "beating" might be closer to the truth than "fight", a thesis reinforced by the way the topmost button of Yzak's pajama has fallen open to reveal a few pale scars. Right beside the pulse-point where neck meets chest are three thin lines, as though someone has stabbed him with a fork and proceeded to force it downwards.

Unlike with the small discolored splotch on his hand from a minor explosion and the scars lining the inside of his thigh and outside of his hip and stomach, Dearka has no idea where the ugly little marks come from, and they disturb him far more than the larger ones he's seen made.

Yes, they really disturb him. Can that be regarded as a fair reason for him to push himself up on one elbow and press his mouth to them?

_No_ screams the way Yzak jerks, and the fashion in which he attempts to knee Dearka between the legs.

The pale boy is flushed, though, and perhaps because of it he misjudges where to aim, the attack slamming into Dearka's thigh instead of crotch. They grabble desperately for a few silent moments before Yzak collapses atop him. Buster's pilot feels himself tremble, for a moment wishing desperately that his friend were a girl so that he didn't need to fight so hard to keep still, hold off the urge to crush the other against him and push his hips upward. Next second, though, Yzak squirms, one of his legs between Dearka's, and suddenly Dearka doesn't give a shit that it's definitely evident they're both male.

When the first blinding wave of excitement has washed over him, he manages to ask himself what the hell he's doing. Seriously, writhing half-naked on his bed with another boy lying over him has never exactly been one of his goals for life. His body appears to have developed a mind of its own, however, for it's certainly not by his conscious volition that his hips continue to strain against the warm weight above him, nor does he remember giving his hands permission to explore underneath Yzak's borrowed pajama. His friend, in turn, seems close to panicking, with the way his eyes have gone wide above his wildly panting mouth and how he grabs desperately at Dearka's arms, neck, chest.

At length he freezes as Yzak's hand fits itself over his mouth, a glimmer of zealousness beneath the lust in his blue eyes. There's something else there too, something Dearka cannot quite decipher…

"Must determine what it means," the pale boy breaths eagerly. "Must determine that it doesn't mean anything."

His hand is gone from Dearka's face in the blink of an eye, replaced by his mouth. Yzak kisses him as though he's trying to lap up his essence, and he retaliates with equal heath and depth. He groans in despair as a loud knock prompts Yzak to release him, but though the most immediate connection is broken they remain painfully close, staring in bewilderment.

"Master Dearka?" The maid's voice is neutral and familiar. "Ms Juhle has called; she's on her way home and wants young mr Juhle to meet her there. She asked me to make sure you respond immediately. I'll be coming in now."

Unfortunately, since they're aware he isn't exactly a quick riser, Dearka's parents have likely authorized such conduct; wordlessly Yzak rolls off him and they're both sitting up when the young woman enters. Under her mild gaze the paler boy drapes a robe around himself and collects his clothes.

"Yzak…!" Dearka cries as his friend follows the servant through the doorway.

He pauses but does not turn. "I'll be seeing you around."

xxxxx


	9. Princess on the White Horse

**Aurora Borealis**

**The Pink-Haired Princess**

When conversing with his fiancée, Athrun feels much like he does upon meeting his father. There are clear and definite regulations on how he ought to behave, but underneath lies the nagging thought that there should be something _more_. Shouldn't you feel some connection when saluting your father? Rather – shouldn't that emotion be mutual?

Patrick Zala loved his wife, and she loved Athrun. That meant that the stern observation of grades and conduct was sometimes paired with an awkward show of care, a ruffle of his hair and pat on his shoulder to balance the occasional slap and fist. He does care about his father, though perhaps not as much as he should – there are memories of long-ago Christmas mornings in his father's lap, though there are also recollections of chilly scorn and mr Zala brushing past him without acknowledging his existence. The majority of the time his father's fairly proud of him, and he's never really beat him up – his mother wouldn't have stood for that, and after her death Athrun hasn't once given him reason. Furthermore it's hardly unusual for the sons of Supreme Council delegates to be raised on distance and the odd swipe; caring and humble parents like Kira's and Nicol's are the exception. It's not his business, and it's not important, but he's never doubted that Yzak and Dearka aren't strangers to punches within the walls of their respective homes. Nothing serious, nothing in liege with what military training covers, but small punishments for displeasing behavior. Yzak's had visible marks, sometimes, but that might just be his pale complexion letting them show easier.

Around Lacus too society has instructed him on what's proper, but admittedly he's less comfortable with delivering bouquets and cheek-kisses than with saluting. Additionally, for all Lacus' ready grace and easy charm she too is awkward when they meet. Then again, it naturally becomes a surreal situations when one is surrounded by countless symbols of intimacy concerning a stranger. Heck, he'd probably be more at ease offering _Yzak_ roses and compliments – at least then he'd know what to expect, and how to handle it when it came. Perhaps time and experience could have broken through the wall of uncertainty separating him and Lacus Clyne, but it's sort of hard to strive for that kind of close contact with a girl after figuring out that you're pretty much gay.

In different circumstances he might have liked ms Clyne – he isn't one to readily let others close, but he can socialize well enough. Completely cutting himself off from any odd, quietly intense exchanges that might hide some deep meaning, he is still as adept as any well-raised teenager at being friendly. For shorter amounts of time, he can joke and speak lightly as though never touched by the war.

Were it not for the engagement, he could have handled, even sympathized with, all three of the girl's personae. The sweet, naive child she frequently acts would have exasperated him after an hour, but kindness and protectiveness would have remained. The idol singer he feels nothing for, but certainly he could work up some sort of vague acceptance for a pretty, well-mannered young girl. The deceptively mild politician whose judgement her father trusts above his own he could have regarded and acted towards as he might any admirable leader. He could have offered a ruffle of her hair; an impersonal kiss on her hand; a crisp salute. It would all have been within the bounds of decorum and outside the bounds of his inner space.

Now he allows himself to swallow before turning the video phone on, knowing that any close connection between them has been cut by the forced pretend-intimacy. The air feels like something he might choke on while he waits for the secretary to forward him to Lacus. Appearing on the screen at last, she's just as pink-haired and sweetly dressed as always, her face expressing just the right combination of childish innocence, delight and worry.

"Athrun-san," she says with every evidence of pleasure. "How nice of you to call. I trust nothing bad has happened…?"

"Lacus-san. I'm glad you were able to answer. I… need to speak to you about a matter of some importance. Your father as well, if that's at all possible."

"May – " She's interrupted by a bright yellow Haro fluttering around her and kindly chases it away. "May I inquire as to what this important matter constitutes of?"

"It concerns a… mutual friend. One with a bird. He's in need of some assistance."

Something that might be surprise or pleasure flicks over her features. "I see. My father is home during the holiday; would it be possible for you to visit us?"

"I would gratefully accept an invitation for tomorrow. He would be coming with me, possibly along with one of my comrades."

"I look forward to seeing you then."

Probably he should say something along the lines of _As do I_, but the lie lodges in his throat. "Thank you. Good night."

"Good night," she echoes, and he turns the screen off and leaves for what has somehow become _their_ room. It feels vastly more like _home_ than the depressingly empty sleeping area he shared with Rusty; then again, even the closet some of the older students locked him and Kira in for the night once gained an air of homeliness from his friend's simple presence. Certainly he's grateful that Nicol left them alone – only now it occurs to him to wonder just how much his comrade is aware of. After all, they didn't do anything worse than a bit of cuddling with Nicol around. In any case he's glad for the other's discretion.

There's a hard, cold knot in his stomach as the thought strikes past his defenses and denial that if things go wrong, then in no time at all it might be Lacus Clyne sitting on the bed waiting for him in place of Kira. Instead of the infirmary room it'll be a luxurious chamber, the hospital bed with its metal frame and strict pale cotton sheets substituted for a large sleeping area in some sort of expensive tree, furnished with silk sheets. Blue eyes instead of purple, long pink hair instead of short brown, cream-colored female figure in place of the olive-tinted one constructed of flat planes and sharp angles.

"Athrun?" The other boy reaches out to him, and he gratefully intertwines their fingers, following the slight pull towards the bed.

"They expect us tomorrow."

Kira nods, beautiful even with apprehension written so plain over his face, and Athrun kisses his cheek. Because the two experiences felt nothing alike it takes him an instant or two to reflect, _I did this with Lacus Clyne._ Thank god for the clear difference evident in everything else he does with Kira and the distance that that establishes.

His fiancée's hands are well cared for, seldom used – white, tender, pink-crowned. Kira's stronger ones, harder since they lack the thin softening layer of fat over the bones, carry calluses, patches of skin that have thickened and grown rough in contrast to the unmarked parts. Fascinated, as much by the intense amethyst stare the action earns him as by anything else, Athrun proceeds to map the texture with his mouth. Soon the other's free hand fits itself around his jaw and gently pushes his head upwards – then they're kissing, and tugging at clothes, and the hand caresses its way over his neck and shoulder, down between his shoulder-blades, nails too short to break the skin despite what appears to be very ardent attempts.

Neither of them is exactly experienced in this field, but nervousness and uncertainty are swiftly overwhelmed by passion. Naked now, moving together (_I did check for spy-cameras, didn't I_) and apparently enhanced genes doesn't have very much too do with expertise in this particular area, for Kira's steadily bolder and more demanding touches are… well, there aren't really any adequate adjective, so one might as well go for dramatic understatement and call them "nice".

_Gently!_ a small portion of his brain that remains not so much rational as mindful of Kira's injured state instructs him as he allows the other's body to fall back and settle against the bed. _Probably shouldn't be doing this kind of thing at all…_

But there are a lot of things that oughtn't to be – Kira shouldn't have to be hurt at all, there shouldn't have been a war to force that upon him, the circumstances shouldn't be that infuse them both with such feverish need to drown anxiety.

And it's difficult to think with Kira's arms encircling him, with the memory of last night heavy between his legs and a heart that pounds so hard that the sound if its pumping is audible. Then Kira's pulling him down and close, and Athrun's drowning in him.

At long last when the ecstasy has subsided he forces himself to roll over and gratefully collapses against the rumbled pillows. The brunette sighs quietly and rests his head against his arm, so near that his lazily half-open eyes are a violet blur.

"I remember when she was at the Archangel," Kira mumbles at last, sounding more awake than he rightfully should. Then again, resettling worry refuses also Athrun sleep. "I was out in Strike when I saw the life-pod. I'd just… I'd just shot down a GINN. Anyway, I brought it back to the ship with me, and they opened it, and she floated out and was so completely unlike everything else there. What caught my attention was this funny pink thing called Haro – it was somehow like Torii. And she was kind, and she could sing."

"That's why she'll help," Athrun replies groggily; despite the agitation of worry, weariness has invaded his mind and body both. Sleepily he tightens his grip around Kira and repeats what has become a lullaby to reassure the both of them, "That's why it'll be okay."

If the words receive an answer, he doesn't hear it, rapidly dozing off as he is.

Next morning he's woken up by the combination of Kira shaking his shoulder and someone, presumably Nicol, rapping on the door.

"You two up?" the green-haired boy's voice sounds. "I've brought some breakfast. Can I come in?"

"A moment, please," Kira calls. "Athrun, our clothes."

Suddenly clear-headed and alert he nods and forces himself out of bed. In a matter of minutes they're semi-presentable and Nicol joins them, and if he has any reaction to their ruffled appearances Athrun's too occupied with thoughts of Kira and the Clynes to notice.

After a hurried ("I let you sleep as long as I thought I could, so I'm afraid it's almost noon") and somewhat strained meal during which they hardly speak at all, Kira suddenly starts crying again, and Nicol tactfully leaves them alone.

_You're not going to be court marshaled, you're not going anywhere without me, if things turn really bad we'll run away somewhere_.

He isn't sure how much of it he says in words, how much is communicated through hugging and kissing and drying tears. It works, though – in the end they even laugh a little, shakily, about some lame line about poofs.

It's more than almost noon when at last they're fully dressed and ready and leave the ship. Embarrassment screams its presence through the red tint to Nicol's cheeks and the clumsiness of his motions as he hesitantly takes a length of cloth from his pocket.

_I should have the impulse to throttle him_, Athrun thinks, but he's tired and the rationality and disquiet are clearly evident in his comrade's demeanor, so he looks away from the betrayed purple gaze and ties the fabric over Kira's eyes himself. When they've left the base proper he hurries to take it off, giving his lover a view of a less secretive piece of ZAFT facility. Through the iron gates up ahead the civil town is visible. In front of them waits the car that'll take them to the shuttle with which they'll travel to the appropriate colony. The vehicle, like all ZAFT cars, is of a brand picked by Councilwoman Juhle, solid, reliable, safe. It's a standing joke that she wants her cars the opposite of how she likes her men.

Helped into the passenger seat, Nicol loading the wheelchair in the trunk cover, Kira remarks, "These controls are really different from those of the cars on earth."

"It's made for Coordinators," Athrun replies.

"Mmh," Nicol agrees. "It would be most unadvisable to let a natural use it without training."

After that they drive in silence, Athrun and Kira holding hands and Nicol staring determinedly out the window. Finally the brunette chances a glance outside as well, and in the delighted expression on his face the blasé Athrun sees again the perfectly idyllic wonder that is PLANT. Yes, for a little while the man-shaped nature eases the tension, but inside the shuttle there's only metal walls and artificial light. This is not a vehicle intended for transporting people, or at the very least not civilians. They sit in the car waiting for the journey to end and the fifteen minutes feel like hours. Not even the return of pleasant scenery is enough to lighten the mood when they disembark. Reaching their destination brings a sort of horrified relief, a rush of adrenaline so concentrated it's painful flooding him – _this is it_, in a different and more complicated way than battle, but no less dangerous.

The grand manse makes Kira stare, belatedly reminding Athrun that though the brunette's parents are on the wealthier side, they remain middle class. The room they shared at the prep. school, with its twin beds, twin desks and single window, that too his friend considered large, while he himself had to bite back the rude reply that even the smallest of his rooms at home was three times the size of this one.

Routine is setting in when it comes to transporting Kira in and out of the wheelchair, and Nicol's help is not needed. Instead, at Athrun's nod, the younger boy rings the doorbell, alerting one of the maids to open and invite them in. They hardly fall within the bounds of normal visitors, three teenage boys, one injured, but the servants are discreet and trained enough that there probably wouldn't have been any raised eyebrows even without Athrun's recognized and expected presence. In any case the maid is sent away for tea almost immediately, Lacus herself greeting them in the entrance hall.

"Welcome," she smiles, Haros fluttering around her person, flowing pastel hair and clothes a stark contrast to particularly Nicol's uniform. Athrun contemplated donning the red himself; it's easy to slip into polite and accomplished young solider mood, and then he doesn't have to think about what's proper. For obvious reasons Kira is less than found of that uniform, however, and truth be told he isn't here as a man of the military. "Athrun-sama, Kira-sama, and…?"

"Nicol Amarfi, ms Clyne," the green-haired boy hurriedly introduces himself, bowing a little deeper than strictly necessary. "It's an undeserved pleasure."

"Not at all; the pleasure is all mine." For a moment she looks like she might step forward, close enough to Athrun to make physical contact possible. He tenses in panic, relieved when habit holds true and she instead turns around. "Follow me, please. My father is waiting."

"Thank you," Athrun says quietly, gaze slipping from her slender back to Kira's mostly expressionless face, which unexpectedly lights up as a green Haro bounces onto his lap.

"Oi," he protests, drawing the attention of Lacus.

"He seems to like you," she remarks, another bright smile on her face. Fortunately the uncomfortable silence the comment summons is broken by councilman Clyne beckoning them into a smaller sitting room. The maid has already deposited the tea tray on the table and the liquid's aroma permeates the chamber.

"Athrun, always a pleasure to see you," mr Clyne says, kindly as per his habit.

He feels rather guilt as he gives the correct reply, about not deserving such kind words, while helping Kira into one of the proper chairs.

"Please excuse me," Nicol says before further greetings can be exchanged. "Perhaps I should rather wait somewhere else?"

"If that is what you feel is best," mr Clyne agrees, and a few seconds later the maid escorts the pilot of Gundam Blitz to the library. In his wake Athrun fairly slumps down, as close to Kira as possible, and pushes the desperate urge to take hold of the other's hand down into the lowest recesses of his mind.

"So," mr Clyne ventures at length, when all of them have been seated and served tea. "This is the young man who operated the last G-unit and brought my daughter back."

"Yes, councilman," Kira agrees, fingers tight around the Haro he still holds.

"Regardless of everything else, I am in your dept for that action," the mr Clyne says. "Now, please explain the current situation."

Athrun means to be brief as he once again recounts their tale, but the words seem to flow away from him. Kira and I close in prep- school. Unable to communicate but in the most superficial and rare manner for a long time after I returned to PLANT. Circumstances in Heliopolis, leading to Strike and the Archangel. Recently taken into custody when found after battle. Empathize the accidentalness of the association with the EA and the deed of saving Lacus.

"And, as you can see, there is now some worry as though what might come about in the matter. Commander Le Klueze, as I have explained, has been very understanding, but his authority is limited."

"I understand," mr Clyne says, still smiling warmly. "I shall see to it that Yamato-kun is placed under my jurisdiction. I should warm you, however, that with such spectacular skill the military faction will not want to release him into civilian life." There's no need to even mention that the leader of this movement is mr Zala.

For the first time Kira lifts his gaze and looks straight at their hosts. "I don't intend to join ZAFT," he says. "I don't want war."

"It was made evident to me on the Archangel that your involvement in the conflict pained you," Lacus speaks with an air of someone being cruel to be kind, "but that you persisted anyway because there was something which you had to protect." She pauses, allowing the Haro to leave Kira's hands in favor of hers. Athrun remembers making it for her, screwing and polishing while flashbacking the creation of Torii. "Don't you have something here that is as important for you to protect?" Her blue eyes are still kind, but there's something a bit… hard… about them.

_She knows!_ explodes in Athrun's head. _But how? Why?_

But there have probably been a thousand clues – how they look at each other, how they touch, how they…

"I understand the need for secrecy," she says, turning to him now, "but isn't there something you should tell me?"

He's made to understand that it is a question, that this extraordinary girl who is supposed to be his fiancée is allowing him to choose. Because of that he meets the still unknowing gaze of councilman Clyne and admits that he loves Kira. Still not letting himself take the brunette's hand he continues to look the blond man in the face until surprised comprehension dawns on his features, then bows deeply, in apology and, though it galls him to admit, entreaty.

"I'm happy for you." Lacus' words, spoken with unexpected sweet sincerity, break the suffocating tension. Now it's all congratulations and understanding, a handshake to him from Mr Clyne and a hand on the cheek from Lacus for Kira. They can afford a positive reaction, Athrun knows – this development have placed all advantage in their hands. Any necessary political alliance can now be secured through marriage without losing the support of the Zala heir, who'll be dependent upon them for the life of his lover. And while he doesn't doubt that Lacus is fond of Kira, like she might have been of him if circumstances were different, she must have plans for him to encourage him to be friendly with a military Athrun knows she isn't a great fan of.

_Like I care_, he thinks suddenly, allowing himself to be frivolous now that acute danger is passed. It's over, she's saved them, and for the first time he genuinely thinks he could kiss Lacus Clyne.

xxxxx


	10. Together, then, we'll Live

**Aurora Borealis**

**Together, then, we'll Live**

The day is ever so much brighter when they leave the Clyne mansion. Ridiculous as the notion may seem, Kira is fully convinced that birds are singing and flowers blossoming that weren't before, simply as a reflection of his own elevation. His relief, the dismissal of tension, is making him all giddy as he practically clings on Athrun. They're giggling and… well, touching… in the backseat, Nicol having taken over the role as driver after remarking that he didn't trust his comrade at the wheel when said comrade only spared the road a mere ten percent of his attention. There was enough sincere concern in the comment to have them move over instead of just shrugging the jokingly uttered words off. Wouldn't it have been just incredibly ironical if an elite battle pilot died in a mundane car accident? Which might jolly well have happened, since Nicol was right – Athrun isn't looking at anything but Kira, and he certainly doesn't keep his hands were they should be. And the roads on PLANT certainly have higher speed limits than those on earth – Nicol drives at almost three hundred kilometers per hour, and he chided Athrun for speeding. With Coordinator reflexes, perhaps it's to be expected, but it doesn't feel all that safe; somehow this is vastly different from operating Strike.

An hour or so later, the proposition is brought forth and eagerly accepted that they stop at one of the roadside cafés for a snack dubbed belated lunch.

"I think I can walk, if you steady me," Kira says. Only a few meters separate the car from the establishment, and he really does feel a lot better. His leg hasn't hurt since the first day he woke up, and though he can't move it at all freely nor put much weight on it, it should be all right. Plus he's sick of the wheelchair. Not only is it uncomfortable, but though the absence of duties caused by his sudden lack of ability is welcome, the lack of ability in and of itself very much isn't.

"Are you sure?" Athrun inquires, a faint line visible at the bridge of his nose. "It's only three days since it was bandaged. I'd rather you stay off it for a bit longer."

"Would you?" he asks mildly in return, sporting a small smile. "Would you expect one of your comrades to?"

Of course the blunette wouldn't let a wounded leg rest, and they both know it. Athrun's walked around with worse injuries than this, insisting that he's fine though everyone with eyes can see he might faint any moment. "Only the worthless are helpless," mr Zala says in Kira's memory. While insisting on doting over every minor bruise and cut on Kira, Athrun has always stubbornly refused to let himself be hampered by anything, be it a forty-five degrees Celsius fever or five broken ribs.

"That's different," he says now, distant gaze breaking the sunny mood as effectively as his quiet, shadow-laced tone of voice. "We've chosen to participate in the cause of our wounds."

"Well, I guess, but then in a sense so have I."

"Really?"

_I never wanted to! I never meant to! I didn't have a choice!_ So he has said, and in many ways it's true – it was fight or die from the start. But, "I could have done things differently. Anyway, if I hadn't got hurt when I did I wouldn't be here now." He has to speak the words slowly, choose carefully between all the phrases crowding his tongue. He won't lie, and he needs to tell Athrun that he'll be perfectly fine so long as they're together, but he can't allow himself betray his friends any more clearly than he does through what he says now. _If I hadn't got hurt when I did I wouldn't be here now, so I'm glad I was shot down when I was. I'm glad I'm here, instead of where I was – with you instead of with them._ Certainly he can't let himself say that, but he doesn't have to; he's never needed to spell his emotions out in order to have Athrun to understand them. Like he knows what's needed now, and leans forward to enclose Kira in a hug.

"Let's go, then," he says, pressing a kiss on the top of the brunette's head and exiting the car.

"Need any help?" Nicol asks, straightening; having gotten to his feet almost at once they stopped, he's had to wait for them for ten minutes at least.

"I think it'll be okay," Kira replies, feeling a bit guilty for forcing the green-haired boy to wait. Especially since Nicol's been exceptionally kind, providing quiet support and lots of privacy that he very likely isn't supposed to grant them.

Slowly edging his way over the backseat and to the open car-door, Kira then gingerly places his feet on the ground, letting Athrun take most of his weight as he carefully proceeds to stand up. Pain spikes through his injured leg, but no worse than it would from a spraining, and he's gotten used to being perpetually beat up since he started piloting Strike. With one of Athrun's arms around his waist and one of his own slung over the blunette's shoulders, he manages to limp with relative ease through the door Nicol holds open for them. Grateful he is to slump down onto a seat at one of the small tables, but if need be he's fairly certain he could walk by himself. Which does not mean that Athrun lets him get up and order for himself, nor that he really minds the familiar tendencies towards over-protectiveness.

The teenaged girl who brings them their orders fifteen or so minutes later is followed by two little boys who stare in awe at Nicol's uniform and the gazes of everyone in the café.

"Here you are," the girl smiles. "It's on the house."

"That's kind," Nicol says, "but really, there's no need."

"But of course," she insists, still beaming. "We can't very well demand payment from those protecting us. Are your friends soldiers too?"

Athrun nods, returning her glad expression with a forced smile of his own. Kira too manages a miniscule affirmative dipping of his head.

"Then are you all elites? You're so young! But I can see the red uniform, of course." Her gaze shifts to Kira. "It must have taken some nasty naturals to injure you."

Laughter pools in his throat, though this is everything but funny. Most unhappy of all is the realization that he sort of wishes she were right – that he was indeed a Coordinator among other Coordinators, a welcome part of a group in which he can melt in and belong. With Athrun, even war might have been endurable. Thus comes the realization that he really isn't part of the Archangel anymore. Previously the separation was physical and out of his control, but he wouldn't go back now if he had the choice. If need be he'll protect his friends, he'll try and stand up for them, but home is where Athrun is.

That insight is what freezes him, causing the blunette to turn to him worriedly. Vaguely he registers Nicol saying something to the girl about not being at liberty to disclose details and allowing the two kids to touch the uniform; what's important is Athrun's voice and Athrun's touch.

During this entire crazed time since he was pulled into the war he's lacked all possibility to make any decisions for himself, has been forced by circumstances to do all kinds of things, and this choice before him now between his lover and his natural acquaintances is no exception. His heart has determined, without leave from his conscious will, that he can't function without Athrun. _I'll die before I'm separated from you again._

And so, despite a little sadness and a tingle of somberness, the meal passes without incident – indeed, in happiness, one made all the keener by the knowledge of pain in both past and future.

"She was very nice," Kira remarks between two bites on a cookie. "Her father too."

Athrun merely nods, obviously uncomfortable with the subject, though or perhaps because he knows them vastly better than either of his companions.

"She really was," Nicol agrees instead, amber gaze on his soda. "I've seen her on television and heard her sing thousands of times, naturally, but that just can't compare to meeting her in person, even briefly." He pauses, still staring at his drink. "I'd like to play with her someday."

Shortly thereafter they leave the café and drive back to the shuttle station. There, however, a phone call reaches them. As they stand in line to enter one of the transportation devices that'll bring them back to the correct colony, a middle aged man in uniform approaches and knocks on one of the car's windows.

"Yes?" Nicol asks, having rolled down the glass-barrier.

"My apologies, Sir," the man says, saluting. Kira doesn't know what rank the cut and color of the stranger's clothing signifies, but judging by his reverent behavior it can't be high. "Commander Le Klueze-sama wishes to speak to Athrun Zala-sama."

"Thank you," the blunette says, accepting a phone. After another salute and a quick bow, the stranger walks away, leaving Athrun to take the call. "Hello?"

A number of "yes", "I see," "thank you, commander," "quite well", "I understand, "no," "indeed," "goodbye" follows before he turns the machine off.

"He's spoken to mr Clyne," Athrun informs, "and they want Kira and I to go to Atlantia to pick up some paperwork and visit their specialist hospital. We'll be taking a small shuttle from here."

"I take it I'm not to accompany you?" Nicol says. Kira would've expected his tone to be coated in faint relief, but what emotion he can detect is rather more like disappointment.

"No," Athrun says. "You know Atlantia is about as far away from here as PLANT reaches, and they want you back in time to start work when the holiday ends. Thank you for everything, and well, see you later."

Helped out of the car and once again standing unsteadily and supported by his lover, Kira pauses to offer Nicol a small bow rendered awkward by how he has to lean on Athrun. "Thank you for your trouble, Nicol-san."

"Not at all." The thin, crow-like voice sounds just a tad choked. "Later."

The transportation device he and Athrun are directed to really is very small, looking for all the world more like a life-pod than a proper shuttle. Heat and light are seemingly the only functions that can be controlled manually from within; the rest is on autopilot. Two wide, couch-like seats line the walls, the seatbelts fastened on which indicating that the shuttle is intended for a maximum of six people. Now there's only him and Athrun, and Kira certainly isn't complaining. On the contrary, he's _quite_ content to curl up with his lover as they take off, resting his head against the other's shoulder.

"Nicol is very likeable," he says, a bit sleepy. A moment's pause as he snuggles into a more comfortable position, wishing the blunette weren't quite so bony. "Ne, tell me about your comrades, the people around you."

Athrun obliges, fingers treading absently through soft brown hair, tempting its owner to purr. "Nicol you met yourself. I don't know him all that much better than you do, really, but we get along. He's shy and calm, does what he thinks is right. I was surprised to see him in the military, since mostly everyone expected him to become a professional musician. But he pilots the Blitz well enough.

As for the others, Le Klueze is an exceptional commander. He's a genius, his battle record is spectacular, and even so he's very… considerate. He offered to let me not launch, you know, in Heliopolis. Since you where there."

From Nicol he could have expected that, as his views on the green-haired boy are much the same as Athrun's, but that the arrogant, intimidating blonde would do such a thing is rather more of a surprise. Then again, the commander has been gracious; there's just some subtle, too-smooth quality about him that makes Kira uneasy.

"The other two in my unit, that you haven't met, Yzak Juhle and Dearka Elthman, well… I don't know them all that well either, and I don't precisely get along with them. We were in the same class during the last phase of our education, after I left the prep. school. Yzak is… very devoted. We have, or at least _he_ has, this rivalry thing going on. Dearka, first and foremost, is Yzak's friend, so I've never gotten closer than to form a picture of a laid-back person. He's good at piloting Buster, though."

So, placing Yzak in Duel, he now knows the pilots of every G-unit. About time, after he's been one himself and fought against the others for what feels like so very long."They almost sound a bit like us," he remarks.

"They do?"

"You're the one who knows them best. But that way of being really close only to each other."

"You're right," Athrun cedes. "I suppose they are a bit similar to our situation."

He remains thoughtfully quiet until Kira gently prods him, "There's only the four of you?"

"For now. We were five with Rusty. Nice guy. My roommate. Died in Heliopolis."

Nausea pumps through him; why did he ask anyway? What was he expecting? Some sweet story where everyone lived happily ever after?

No, he didn't, and he wants all of Athrun, and this is part of him. "I'm sorry," he says, knowing that the words are so insufficient they border on meaningless but hoping that his hard, warm grip around the other isn't. Surprisingly, the reply makes him feel a little better – he is sorry, they both are, but he'll do what he can to alleviate that emotion.

"I knew him just well enough for his death to make me furious. It was in the machine hall, just before I went after that woman. He was supposed to capture Strike. It feelstraitorous to say that in a way I'm glad he didn't." Kira understands; if Rusty had succeeded, then he and Athrun might have met in other circumstances – or they might not have, and the risk of the latter is too high. The blunette smiles humorlessly. "Then again, he always said the war was all about the survival of the fittest."

"As in the Coordinators?"

From the way the other's muscles tense and then relax under his cheek, Kira gets the impression Athrun was about to shrug before calling to mind the fact that his lover is using his shoulder as a pillow. "As in whoever made it."

The concept disgusts him, probably to a large extent due to its inescapable logic. Unfortunately there's only hope that righteousness or innocence should avoid and cause injury easier than their opposites, not fact or even strong hypothesis. Still, he'd like to believe.

"Your father?" he asks, approaching a subject that once appeared dark and unseemly.

"Died with Junius Seven." The chipped voice is swift. "With Mom and all the others. There's only Commander and Councilman Zala left now." _He wasn't much of a father to begin with, but it does pain me, and surely everyone can see it isn't normal to run to your fiancée's family to protect your affair with your boyfriend from the people who regard your father as their leader?_

That, right when Kira has straightened up a little to be able to fully embrace the other, is when the shuttle rocks. Violently. And through the thick walls come the sounds of… yes, it's unmistakable, he's heard too many explosions to fool himself into believing that these noises have any other cause. Same goes for Athrun, obviously, since after a muttered but heart-felt "shit!" the blunette is up and typing away frantically at the controls. Kira's first instinct is to follow him, but his injured leg and the fact that he can clearly hear everything Athrun says make him remain where he is, holding onto the edge of the seat to prevent being thrown to the floor by the persistent shaking.

"ZAFT forces," his lover calls. "This is Athrun Zala of the Le Klueze Team requesting information on the situation."

The reply is littered with static and code-names, but the fact that they've happened upon a battle is very clear, and apparently it doesn't look so good for the Coordinator forces.

"Do you have any unused mobile suits?" Athrun asks. "I _need_ to protect the person in this shuttle."

"Sorry, Sir." The blunette looks tempted to curse vehemently, but relaxes at the next reply; "But we'll make sure to send you out of harm's way. Just give us time to fasten the equipment on the shuttle, and we'll protect your retreat." Static. "For the sake of ZAFT."

"For the sake of ZAFT," Athrun echoes, cold, solemn and saluting.

It takes Kira a few moments to decipher that, and even then he wishes to believe his conclusion faulty. "Wha? Athrun, you can't, you…you're – _letting them die for us_!"

"Correct," his lover states calmly. "They will make sure to catapult our shuttle away into space, and that nobody follows us. There are only very few EA ships in the area we're likely to end up in, so we should be fine. Now put on your seatbelt."

He obeys, even as he argues, "But there are too many EA vessels here for any of the ZAFT soldiers to make it if they have to worry about us and covering our flight! They'll die!"

"Yes," Athrun says, fastening himself to the seat. "We're aware of that, and so are they."

"But why would they do that? They don't even know us!"

"No, they don't," the blunette agrees. "And if they did, we'd die here. You don't think we'd survive without their sacrifice here, do you? And do you really believe they'd make it for one elite comrade and a half-traitor? No doubt they assume the person I needed protect is some fancy commander or politician."

"That just makes it worse!" Kira cries. "Tricking them into dying for us – we're as good as murdering them ourselves!"

The shuttle wobbles and shakes violently before suddenly, prompted by a grand explosion, rocketing off, away from the sounds of battle. He hangs on to the seatbelt, the seat itself, Athrun beside him, anything that can be interpreted as steady.

"Do you want us to die?" his lover argues, upset too at this point. "I've killed before and so have you, and they were no more innocent that either of us! Would what you have done!"

He can't answer until the shuttle has stabilized, an unknown amount of time later. He has no idea where they are now and feels vaguely queasy; he also still holds on tightly to Athrun's hand.

Weird, that it should be somehow reassuring that his lover doesn't have the answers either. No one does, not really, and it has long frustrated him, but the feeling creeping over him now is tenderness. Two heads are better than one, right, so they'll figure it out, between the two of them.

"Together, then," he says, "we'll live?"

"Together we'll live." A moment's pause, then, wryly with a touch of honest worry, "Which I suspect would be a lot easier if we weren't stuck in here with pretty much no supplies and no idea where the hell we are."

There's undeniably something to be said for that.

xxxxx


	11. Unresolved Sexual Tension

**Aurora Borealis**

**Unresolved (Sexual) Tension**

Being back on the ship feels good. It's not like coming home, but it does mean exchanging enforced relaxation and a certain anxiety for a different tension; it means an awareness of adrenaline ready to burst forward on a moment's notice.

Correction: Yzak can't remember a time when tension wasn't breathing over his shoulder, when excitement wasn't ready to explode through him, hard and fast enough to make his ears ring with the mad beat of his pulse, to have his stomach turn with the intensity of it. There are, however, different kinds of adrenaline.

There is the sort that just never lets you rest, that lingers perpetually in your bloodstream and taps into your consciousness. It makes you so tense it exhausts you, far too tense to rest, and then you're too tired to relax, and grow even tenser, and so more exhausted; and so on goes the maddening circle. That's the sort of adrenaline brought forth by the knowledge of trials to come, unavoidable and unmanageable.

There's a good version of that, too, the anticipation of tasks to accomplish, of goals to reach. This tension is like a tightening of your mind, but not constricting like in the previous case, merely as a help to focus. The beat of your heart and the adrenaline it pumps through you is a comfortable reminder of what is to come, easing and sharpening your knowledge of what you'll do. It can be experienced when waiting to write tests, but that's nothing compared to in the face of battle.

Those are before-occasion, and intense as they can be they're nothing compared to the furious concentration brought about by the actual events. There are bad and good kinds of that version too, chiefly two of each.

There's the wasted energy of losing to Athrun Zala, the all but painful frustration of unused energy throbbing through you. Adrenaline will have made your head light, so light that you think you'll puke or something since your grip on your body isn't as good as it should be; it's acting directly on your emotions and reflexes, without consulting the brain, and inwardly you're retching up your failure.

Worse is the pain of panic – how you can't see or hear or move, how fear paralyzes you and so leaves you without an outlet for the adrenaline pulsing though you, cascading inside the locked cavity of your body. Panic is the tension taken to its highest point with no control left over it whatsoever, it's fear so strong it hurts, and then it hurts for real, and the excitement continues to rise, forcing the unwanted sensations upon you ever more strongly. The sickening humiliation of being bested by Zala is nothing compared to that, and so Yzak is very glad to be back on a ship where a few losses to his comrade is the worst that can befall him.

Here, too, is where the good tension can be found.

There's a thrill in battling, in concentrating only on the fight, excluded from everything but the strained, overwhelming excitement, the rush of adrenaline washing over you like a tidal wave. It's close to the bad version, if you lose that's where you'll end up, and the slight fear spikes the experience to even greater heights of intensity. This, like the milder form of bad tension, sometimes used to take him so strongly that he had to lock himself into a room and just scream it out. He threw a lot of tantrums as a child, but this was different.

Finally there's the endorphins of knowing that you'll win, that you'll succeed and survive, that you made it and were important enough to shape your own destiny. That's thrilling and sweet and more exciting than it logically should be given that the danger is over.

Yzak is intimately acquainted with all of these states of mind. He's experienced them off and on since before his memories are clear and comprehensible, and to a large degree they shape his world. How strange, then, how enticing and disgusting, to suddenly be faced with a new type of excitement entirely. The accelerating pulse is familiar, and so too are the sensation of being shaky and the way his chest rises and falls with soundless panting – not so well, indeed hardly at all, known is the feeling of warmth sweeping over his face, the tingling of his lips or the tightening of his insides, like they're leaning in closer to something precious.

Dearka's eyes are on him and the feelings take his body from him; the new ones are startling through their mere presence, the old ones through their sheer magnitude and strength. If his ribs weren't there to cage it, he's ready to bet his heart would have beat its way to the far side of the room by now.

That figure of speech, by the way, is absolutely not influenced in any sense by the fact that Dearka's leaning against the wall opposite him.

_Focus on something else_, he tells himself sternly. _Though I _am_ ready to bet… Bet! Right, that's it, betting's been rather lucrative lately. Athrun and the traitor sissy, who'd have thought? Haven't seen either of them yet, come to think about it._

"Yo," his friend calls. "See you got here in time after all."

Yzak's rather nasty reply is halted by Nicol entering the room, not from the entrance like he himself minutes ago but from the bowels of the ship.

"You must've returned way early," Dearka, whose suitcase reveals that he too arrived rather recently, remarks. "How come?"

Keeping his gaze on the plant in the corner, Nicol replies, "I never actually ventured far from the ship before I was told to return in order to monitor Athrun and Kira-san. I was relived of that duty earlier this afternoon and thought it simplest to make my way directly back here."

"Watched the guy of your dreams smooch around with his sweetheart?" Obviously, from the way the blonde's words drive a violent blush to the amber-eyed boy's cheeks. "Gross."

Yzak forcibly hinders his face from tensing. Kissing on the floor-turned-bed, touching, testing, tasting –

"That's _gross_, is it?" he asks.

"Well, would you want Nicol witnessing your escapades?" Dearka replies, leaving Yzak uncertain as to whether his friend understood his question.

"My… _escapades_?" he inquires.

"Now, now," Dearka says with faux surprise painted over his face and advances upon him. Yzak curses himself for not preventing it until the blonde is already standing scant inches away from him, cornering him between the wall and his body – then he curses himself for thinking there's something about the situation that requires preventing. They've been in close contact hundreds, _thousands_, of times, and this is no different, there's no reason to panic that Nicol can see them, because, damn it, they _aren't doing anything._ Then Dearka croons, "Don't tell me you've _forgotten_," and now Nicol really shouldn't see for they are doing something, and – and –

He can't move, is simultaneously frozen and burning up, intensely aware of and infinitely distant from how Dearka trails a hand down his face, stroking lightly through smooth silver hair, whispering over his fronthead and across his temple, teasing the corner of his eye before minutely cupping his cheek. Next a fingertip brushes across his lips, followed by all its siblings along his jaw and spilling underneath, trailing the veins in his neck. Even now, with Dearka leaning over him with the fingers of one hand caressing his throat and those of the other tracing his ear, he only stand there stock-still and lets him, wide-eyed and breathing deeply and forgetting Nicol's presence. He should do _something_, either push the blonde away or reciprocate, take back the initiative in some manner, but he can't.

"Your attention, if you please," one of the workers from the bridge calls suddenly from the doorway, looking much too smug for his own good. How close to one of his comrades Yzak happens to stand is no one else's bloody business – even if they'd been freaking _shagging_ it still wouldn't concern–

Now where did _that_ thought come from?

Dearka pulls away and Yzak vows to kill the interrupter for seeing him blush. Yzak Juhle is not in the habit of blushing, but he _is_ in the habit of making sure that those witnessing it are willing to die before spilling.

"Yes?" Nicol says at last, addressing the older man. "What is it?"

Straightening, the bridge-worker reports, "Commander Le Klueze, who is currently attending a meeting, sent me to inform you of some new developments. Firstly, the shuttle your comrade Athrun Zala-san traveled in got caught up in an unexpected battle between the Arsenus Squadron and an unconfirmed number of vessels from the EA. Evidence suggests that the transportation device escaped, and the 7th reserve group is currently searching for it. Furthermore, in view of recent events, the locating and capturing of the legged ship have been delegated, and this vessel is to heed to the Suzamo front."

Nicol collapses bonelessly onto a couch, face white and terrified. If he were the type to argue with their commanders he'd be demanding they take off to look for Athrun this instant. As it is he just looks shell-shocked, even going so far as to direct a pleading gaze at Yzak – perhaps desperate for reassurance, perhaps hoping the more outspoken boy will at the very least argue for a continued stalking of the Archangel, which would also grant them opportunities to find the missing shuttle.

But the legged ship is no challenge without its G-unit, and Yzak knows enough about tactics to be aware that they'll do a world of good at the suggested front. It'd be lunacy to go after the Archangel with elite troops when the dregs will suffice. That ship's of little interest without the Strike pilot, and he's gone along with Athrun – and yes, that was exactly the thought he didn't want to entertain. Sure, he doesn't like Athrun, often even going so far as to hate the blunette, but if _Zala_, arrogant, aloof, perfect solider Zala with face and voice that Yzak _knows_ has been shot down, then… then something's very wrong.

"That was all," the messenger sums up. "Good night."

"Hey, Nicol…" Dearka ventures uncertainly.

The smaller boy makes an abortive gesture with one hand, effectively shutting the blonde up. With slow, over-careful movements Nicol stands up, lips pressed tightly together and eyes not entirely focused. "Not now. I'll go play for a while. Excuse me."

In his wake Dearka accompanies Yzak to their room in silence. Putting away what little stuff they've brought and getting into bed is rather a quiet affair, too. Talking would bring up either what has befallen Athrun, what's going on between them, or something completely unrelated and probably funny. This really isn't the time for the last, and Yzak is not ready to deal with either of the real options for conversation. Instead he just says "Goodnight" before turning off the light, glad that he and Dearka are close enough for the silence to be comfortable.

xxxxx

He has a pretend piano here, one that for all its shortcomings is painfully better than nothing. After much prodding around and with some help he has managed to produce the instrument that together with the bed takes up almost eighty percent of his single room. It's the same size as one of those play pianos for children, but crafted and toned to be comparable in sound-quality to a normal one of mediocre standard. Taking distant note that he's breathing so shallowly and fast that he's probably not getting enough air, which might be why these dark little spots keeping fluttering in front of his eyes, he eases down onto the stool and blindly seeks the keys.

Athrun's gone. _Athrun's gone._

Not completely – though the best way to save himself heartache and worry would probably be to mentally declare his comrade dead, he absolutely refuses. With some reason, too, since they said the shuttle probably got away, and Athrun is very good. He'll survive. He has to survive.

Nicol hopes for Kira's life as well, but it's Athrun who _has_ to make it. Otherwise… otherwise…

Swallowing repeatedly, he hammers on the keys, marveling at and cursing the impossible fact that even now the notes are beautiful. Wonder child that he is, he can't help but to make even grief appealing in a dark, saddening sort of way through his music. And he resents that, because there is nothing good in this. Fury and frustrated helplessness and hope so desperate it hurts, the pain of loss in all its incarnations, is so very much better expressed through his choked, anguished cries.

His voice has never been one of his talents, and it feels to him that now it has finally found its calling. Something so ugly and awkward as the sounds he produces are exactly the kind of noise that grief would make if it had a mouth. It doesn't, and so Nicol lends it his body, letting it rein free and pour its essence into the world through the million tears pouring from his eyes and making rivers down his cheeks, through the hiccups that lodge in his throat before exploding as muffled yells, through his clenched fists hammering the keys of the piano.

Athrun's gone and the naturals killed him and Nicol _hates_ them.

He wishes he could hate Kira too, since these feelings tormenting him would be legitimate if he'd been in the brunette's place, but in fact he hates the EA even more for murdering him as well. Nicol and Athrun were nothing but distant though good friends, but, safely and wantonly with the blunette now gone, he can realize and admit that he loves him.

He couldn't ever have gotten him in any case, would very likely never have confessed, but the emotion is there nonetheless, at the core of the music that finally comes to him. Just briefly, though – soon, far too soon, it's gone again and he's once more lacking any outlet for the feelings tormenting him. The rage is gone, leaving him to be overtaken by bleak hopelessness and endless misery.

Unable to stand the empty room and only distantly hoping that no one will be around to see him in this sad condition he flees out into the main corridor, his feet tracking the way to Athrun's room without any instruction from his admittedly rather short-circuited brain.

Inside and with a locked door between himself and the misery of the world he collapses onto the blunette's bed, burying his face in the pillow which retains such teasing traces of Athrun's scent, and proceeds to unceremoniously cry his heart out. His very broken heart.

What comes to him when he'd done, surprisingly, isn't a mental image of Athrun, bold and bony and beautiful, but of Lacus Clyne, mild and wise and sweet. Startlingly but unquestioningly heartened by the memory of the girl whose songs he knows he'll play for Athrun tomorrow, he gets up from the bed and opens the closet, rescuing some clothing from the dusty depths. Because he doesn't want to forget, not even the smallest things like which brand of soap the blunette uses or that habit of his to leave little notes in his pockets; because he is in love and wants to keep some part of Athrun for himself, and it won't matter to the Aegis pilot now anyway, so why should he mind?

It is possible that the blunette will come back. It is possible that he won't. What is certain is that right now Nicol is a Gundam pilot of the Le Klueze Team of the Zodiac Alliance of Freedom Treaty, headed for the Suzamo front, and that right now he has nobody but Yzak and Dearka.

What is certain is that he'll do his best.

xxxxx


	12. Plot Contrivance

**Aurora Borealis**

**Plot Contrivance**

Relived that the fight is over and anxious not to start a new one (not here and now, with too little oxygen to waste it on shouting and a nagging need to remedy the situation) Athrun at length pushes away from Kira after a last lingering touch to his face and starts checking the controls. Unfortunately, as the frown marring his face bears witness to, they weren't all that great to begin with, and the explosion propelling them away from the battle didn't exactly improve them. Thank god there's a small kit of handy mechanical equipment hidden underneath the water, food rations and medical stuff among the supplies, and even so they're pretty damn fortunate that he has a knack for mechanics.

"Athrun?" Kira asks maybe half an hour later. "How's it going? Is there anything I can do to help?"

He forces a smile, not pausing in his ministrations. "I think I'm getting the hang of it. Give me another sixty minutes or so, and we'll see. You just rest." And, when his lover looks about to protest, "I appreciate the offer, but I've got training and you've gotten drugged so it'll probably be quicker if I do it on my own." Which Kira knows, or he would have asked long ago.

"Fine." Beneath the weariness and acceptance in the tone lies a hint of hurt, prodding Athrun to drop his work and smile at the brunette, pouring as much of his love into the expression as worry and frustration will let him.

"Thank you," he says, watching Kira smile back at him before returning to the task of fixing the systems.

Perhaps two thirds of an hour later he's finished, as finished as he can get, and slumps down beside his lover on the seat. Snuggling up together has become reflex, automatic.

"Okay," he says, mentally summarizing what he's done before putting it in words. "Now, the main power wasn't damaged, so when I managed to tap into that I could get practically all the systems working, and a little fixing got us some new ones. I've made the shuttle track ship signals and heat sources, it's moving slowly and programmed to approach objects matching the criteria it's set to look for while avoiding those which don't so that we don't collide with anything. Also… according to what little navigation capacity that's workable we're somewhere in the outskirts of the debris belt."

"The Archangel hid there once," Kira remembers. "That was when we picked up Lacus Clyne."

"Yeah," Athrun says. "Problem is, the reason it was such a good hiding place is that extremely few vessels from either side traffic the area."

"So that means we don't have much of a chance getting rescued?"

"I'm afraid so. We're moving as fast as we can, but…"

"But…?"

Should he lie? Probably. Unfortunately he isn't any good at that, not when Kira is concerned. "With only these supplies we'll only last a few days."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

It should likely upset him more than it does; however, dying with Kira seems a much more pleasant alternative than living without him. Hopefully they'll be found and helped, but though his lover should live, really should live, spending a few days here with him before a peaceful death doesn't appear that bad. Maybe they'll go mad before that; he's heard of cases when claustrophobia and fear of what's to come have driven people insane. The thought is not entirely unpleasant.

_Get a grip_, he sneers at himself. _You can abandon hope for yourself all you like, but don't you dare give up on Kira._

Kira, who leans his head sideways, inviting Athrun to catch his mouth in a kiss. After a bit of shuffling around they're sitting even more closely, the brunette practically in the Aegis pilot's lap.

"Why don't you tell me about your friends now?" Athrun suggests.

"Sure," Kira mumbles hesitantly against his neck. "You've met my parents. They're… my parents; I don't know what else to say. They made me a Coordinator and raised me a natural. I… am theirs but not theirs. There's sort of a kind distance, as though it's been decided that it's best not to try and be too close for fear that the attempt will fail."

Quietly stroking his lover's face, Athrun experiences a short flashback of weary, washed-out people who lacked the authority and willingness to give direction that he associated with parents. Kind they were, respectful in ways that it startled him to see in adults. Then again the only grown-ups he'd met up till that point had been from the very top of achievement; the servants and such didn't properly count as people. Of a classmate's parent he expected jewelry and the smell of perfume and tobacco – he certainly had never imagined one washing the dishes or walking around in sneakers. That summer when he stayed at their house they even went so far as to call him Athrun-san, nevermind that he was decades younger – no doubt they knew who his father was. Probably he wasn't able to hide his surprise as well as he should have in order to remain polite, not over that and not over the lack of silverware at dinner or lack of art and servants to fill the small house. Small by his standards, that is.

"In Heliopolis there weren't all that many people at all close to me; everyone I knew save my parents and some teachers are on the Archangel. Everyone there… they're good people, really. The captain, and the officers, and the mechanics. The lieutenant, too, and my friends. Sai's on the serious side, whereas Tolle is very easy-going. Miriallia is kind as well." He yawns, and during the brief pause Athrun can't help but reflect that every adjective used about these people is of the most general variety; "good", "nice". It sounds like a strikingly impersonal judgement.

"Then there's Kuzzey, the smart silent type, and Fllay Allister…"

"What about her?" Athrun prods gently when Kira falls uncomfortably silent.

"I… don't know, really. She's a nice girl, but…"

"But…?"

The next comes in a rush, "She's kinda hot and Tolle and them thought I had a crush on her, and she was sort of friendly on the Archangel, she's engaged to Sai I think, but she's said some things about Coordinators, not so much to me but when Lacus was there it sometimes sounded like she hated us, and almost right before I was shot down her father died in that battle, and she told me I didn't defend him properly because I didn't fight as hard as I could, since I'm a Coordinator too, I understand she's upset but it's weird because she's so off again on again, first being really kind then really cruel then kind again and… I don't know."

He snuggles desperately close, the side of his face pressed against Athrun's chest, and Athrun holds him tightly, reassuringly. He doesn't know how long they sit like this, or how long he's out when he dozes off; time becomes a blur remarkably fast when you're trapped in stasis with nothing to demand your attention. Every now and then he checks the controls and once, twice, Kira plucks food from the storage space. Otherwise they're just resting, talking of nonsensical things and holding on. In a sense it's damn fortunate the last few days have been so hectic, or they probably wouldn't be able to sleep this much. Despite those hours lost in darkness he's filled with frustrated energy when the sensors finally detect something.

Hardly daring to hope, this far gone into the debris belt, he pushes the appropriate buttons and scans the screen. "It's a ship," he announces. "A large one. We'll connect in two hours at most."

Kira is at his side in an instant, a pained mien fluttering over his face before he takes the weight off his injured leg. "Can you tell which side it's on? Is it possible to communicate with it?"

A few key-pressings reveal that, "No, unfortunately. And I can't determine what ship it is. I guess we'll just have to wait and see. We've gotten some practice doing that, by now."

This is different, though. This is the anticipation of a real, upcoming event rather than a fairly naive hope for an unlikely rescuing. Refusing to speculate for fear of getting his hopes too high, he hides his identification papers and puts a couple of locks on the computer systems before solemnly raiding the supply container of all weaponry and splitting the arsenal between them. Not very equally, since Kira isn't in any condition to fight efficiently, but fair enough – pistol for the brunette and knives for himself.

"I can't use this," Kira protests, reluctant to accept the item Athrun is handing him.

"Of course you can. I'm aware you didn't finish it, but you obtained a solid ground formilitary education in prep. school." That's so much easier than replying to the real issue, and hopefully it will also serve to remind his lover that he has used those same war-skills plenty of times before.

"Anyone can fire a gun," Kira says impatiently, "but I couldn't shoot someone!"

Athrun gives him what he meant to be a consoling kiss but what develops into a mutual exchange of reassurance. "If we're lucky you won't have to," he says when they part, "but may I remind you that this is exactly the same thing as when you used Strike to protect your friends." Though a mobile suit grants you a slightly greater distance between yourself and your enemies than hand-to-hand combat allows for. They might both be trained, and they may both be killers, but he knows Kira hasn't taken anyone's life with his bare hands.

The way the shuttle accelerates just then announces that the ship has accepted it, opened the necessary hatches to receive them. Nudging the brunette behind him, Athrun readies himself for whatever might come, crouching tensely beside the still-closed opening. Slowly, achingly slowly, it starts to glide open, revealing a slice of machine hall that does not fit the lay-out of any ZAFT vessel he's familiar with but is closer to those than to the EA outline. The definite proof that they haven't been rescued by allies are the white uniforms of the natural army adorning the people outside – and then the bullet suddenly exploding from one of their guns, accelerating through the opening and embedding itself in the far wall of the shuttle.

"_Fuck!_" Athrun sneers under his breath, springing forward.

There are two groups of opponents, one seemingly consisting of mechanics and the other of higher-ranking officers. Given that the members of the former are armed with nothing more threatening than an assortment of mechanical equipment, he concentrates on the latter clique. Just like Kira said, anyone can fire a gun, and if he's hit it won't matter that he's a Coordinator. So long as he doesn't give them time or space to use the firearms he's fine, though, and he doesn't even need to dodge any stray bullets before slamming into them.

A flying kick sends the closest guy crashing into his mates, three of them falling into a heap, leaving Athrun free to engage the tall blond man opting to take him on. He's so far gone into the battle fury that despite the numerous pictures he's been shown he doesn't recognize the Hawk of Endymion until the man's already lying at his feet.

Were he lucid, not so lost in the dark focus of the fight, he'd have probably mentally exclaimed something along the lines of _No way! No freaking way._ Because for them to end up on the Archangel of all ships is simply beyond even Murphy's Law, it's – it's damn _plot contrivance_, is what it is.

Right now he isn't properly thinking at all, not in the usual sense of the world. Lots of information passes through his brain, but he's not making any conscious effort to ingest or react to it; his body's moving faster than his mind, like always when it needs to.

Rightfully he should have already died or been captured upon entering an EA vessel in this condition, for all practical purposes unarmed and unaided, but though the current situation is by no means an easy one to master he should be able to handle it. Possible friends of Kira's or not, these people are the enemy and they're attacking him and if the doesn't win there's no telling what might happen to either himself or his lover, and they've called for reinforcements now, and are attempting anew to overwhelm him with their greater numbers and greater bulk.

Unfortunately for them they're too good to let him handle them without hurting them but nowhere near good enough to withstand him once they've forced him to become serious. The knives fly from his hands, embedding themselves in technical personnel and a dark-haired woman in white uniform. Whether the hit is lethal he doesn't know, and right now he doesn't care – he's doing what he has to do, and he's doing it well.

Then, somewhere behind him, Kira cries, "Athrun!"

Whipping around he's faced with a boy their own age, light brown hair and baby-fat still clinging to his cheeks. In his unsteady hands is a pistol, and no matter how nervous the youngster looks there's no way he could miss at this distance. There's no time for deliberation or hesitation – when the natural boy's bewildered gaze flickers to Kira Athrun slaps the last knife from his belt and flings it with what he knows to be deadly accuracy.

If things were normal, the dagger would have nailed the intended victim's throat and that would have been the end of it.

Instead Kira's throwing himself forward, pushing the projectile enough off course for it to hit the natural in the chest instead. That, however, is only a secondary notion, for because of the potion or any other reason Kira doesn't move away as fast as he needs to, and so a belated bullet intended for Athrun slams into his body.

"No," Athrun says, numbly. Or does he speak at all? Frozen, taken out of time, he can only watch the brunette crumble to the floor. "_No!_"

Next second the world's gone, absolute _need_ exploding in his mind and pushing a sort of burning ice through his body.

The blond man is up once more, then down again just as quickly, followed in rapid procession by everyone else foolish enough to approach. It's child's play to forsee their moves, intercept them, and he'd very likely have killed them all, had Kira not voiced his name again, calling him back from the distance and into painful reality.

"Athrun," Kira husks, and he's alive, _he's alive_, but obviously hurting rather badly and there's _no time_.

Moving quickly, Athrun reaches out and snags a white-skirted, brown-haired woman. While forcing her arms down along her body and her back pressed against his chest, he kicks the pistol Kira dropped into the air, catches it and rests the barrel against the side of her head, right above the ear. In the sudden silence overtaking the hall, the click as he releases the safety is clearly audible.

"Athrun," comes his lover's voice, partly a pained gasp, partly an angry rebuke. "If we could just talk-"

"Yes," the Aegis pilot interrupts. "Let's talk."

"Fine," Mu La Flaga replies tightly, anger and fear almost chasing the pain off his face as he struggles again to his feet. Despite the blood at the edge of his mouth and the way his legs don't seem to want to support him he refuses to lean against the wall, staring hard at the trembling woman Athrun holds captive. "What do you want?"

"I want not to be killed," he says. "And I want not to be separated from Kira."

"Then release her," La Flaga demands. "Your demands are acceptable, provided that you don't harm anyone here and cooperate."

Nodding briefly, Athrun locks the safety and drops his pistol, pushing it towards the blond natural with his foot even as he takes his hands off the brunette woman and raises them into the air. Killing them or trusting them are his only two alternatives, and with Kira hurt and these people his friends Athrun has little choice but to settle for the first. _Moment of truth_, he thinks as the woman stumbles free and several of the still conscious people train their guns on him. _Kira._

"It's all right," the female declares. "Leave him alone, tend to the wounded."

Relief so intense it hurts pounding through him, Athrun allows himself to crash to his knees beside Kira, fussing frantically over him. He should see about getting the bullet out, but it's lodged in nothing more dangerous than the already-injured leg, and so he lets himself enclose the other in a crushing embrace instead, breath hitching with belated panic until Kira smiles at him, the smile that makes Athrun aware that Kira is everything in the world, and therefore the world is perfect.

xxxxx


	13. Boundaries of Being Human

**Aurora Borealis**

**The Boundaries of Human**

Walking through the deserted corridors of the Archangel, Sai feels somewhat like a ghost. With nothing ever breaking the monotony on the ship that has somehow, to his undisguised horror, become akin to his home and the person who represented hope to all of them now gone it is as though they have all reverted to pale specters. Even Ensign Badguriel's sharp temper and sharper tongue and Lieutenant La Flaga's good humor have faded into silent, dying presences. The only chipper sounds are Torii's occasional noises, even among the civilians – they too have caught on to the grimness of the situation, from what he's seen and heard. That, admittedly, isn't much, being that he's mostly kept to the crew, but he'd have to be dead, deaf and blind not to notice the unrest. They haven't even been hiding here a week, and already a feeling of gloom hangs over them.

Though there is presently no need to operate or even maintain the controls of the ship, there have been things to occupy his time, for which he is grateful. Without the assistance of Strike it's a considerably harder and slower task to obtain and transport the supplies they need from external sources but it has to be done, and manning one of the little pods used for it is better than just slouching around on the mothership.

In between sleep and work, there's been Fllay. Which means that he hasn't been getting all that much sleep at all lately.

His pretty, petty fiancée has always been on the high-maintenance side, and now bereft of her usual coterie and with her beloved father recently killed she takes up a lot of his time and energy. Not that he minds, not at all, on the contrary he's rather grateful that she gives him something to do, someone to be there for so he doesn't have to feel so damn useless.

His fragmented musings are interrupted by one of the other crewmembers coming up beside him. "I hear they've taken in that shuttle we detected a while ago," the man says. "There's still no identification of it or its passengers, and I fancied I saw an alarm just about now – come with me to check?"

Nodding his agreement, Sai falls into step beside the other.

When arriving at last, they find the machine hall a battlefield. No, that's not the right word for it, and Sai's particular about his phrasing. "Battlefield" implies a large area, a large-scale fight, and that is not what takes place here – too few people, too cramped together. It isn't even really a fight, the two sides just being too unequal for that description, which speaks of mutual actions.

Stopping uncertainly a few meters from the closest person engaged, Sai stares at the only one who's actually doing damage, at a lethal boy his own age with hair a shade of blue that no amount of dye could ever have given a natural. He should probably search his mind for an answer as to how the hell they managed to get themselves into this situation, or better yet do his best to help remedy it, but he's frozen with fear and fascination at the sight of the Coordinator. Who's moving with a speed and agility Sai has only ever expected to see in fictional characters, heroes of computer games or sci-fi movies, the kind of controlled, passionate perfection that has so fleetingly graced some of Kira's moves.

Now La Flaga is leaping for Blue Hair and it should matter that the blond man is the Hawk of Endymion, with greater reach and presumably greater strength, more experience and a name as hero to live up to – it should matter but evidently it doesn't for one kick later the natural is down.

Next second he's not the only one, several other people falling as well; most of them screaming and bleeding, causing Sai's eyes to widen painfully as he notices the knives stuck in some of the victims. Still the feeling of being cut-off remains, as though he were watching an action flick. He never much liked those, though, and nausea is rolling at the bottom of his stomach at the sight of the redness rapidly staining white uniforms and orange bodysuits. Stumbling forward he lets his knees give way and collapses beside Ensign Badguriel. He hovers tentatively over her, never quite daring to touch the hilt of the knife stuck in between her ribs, and his attention snaps elsewhere as a familiar, impossible voice calls, "Athrun!"

Sai is absently glad that it's not possible for a human jaw to detach itself enough to hit the floor, cause otherwise he'd get himself some nasty bruising. Kira, MIA, dead-assumed but obviously very much alive Kira, is leaning against the wall of the shuttle. A meter or two away from him is Tolle, Tolle who's doing what Sai should have done, pointing a pistol at the Coordinator (Athrun? The Athrun they spoke of the night Kira disappeared?) and he'd have quite possibly managed to shoot him, had it not been for Kira's warning.

Now, with Tolle staring at their friend in bewilderment, Blue Hair makes his move, again so fast that it seems like everyone else is practicing slow motion, a blink of silver flying towards Tolle. This time the projectile wouldn't "quite possibly" have hit, no, it would with absolute certainty have landed exactly where Athrun intended, had Kira not again interfered.

The knife embeds itself into Tolle's upper torso almost at the same instant as the bullet takes Kira in the leg.

Blue Hair's shocked, terrified, furious exclamation ringing through the hall, Sai abandons manners and grabs Ensign Badguriel's gun from her belt, intending to go down fighting with the rest of the crew. It's over; they haven't a chance. _Goodbye, Mother, Father, everyone,_ he thinks. _Fllay, I'm sorry, I tried my best to protect you._

Catching sight of Kuzzey's mangled body, slumped against the wall the impact with which stole his consciousness, Sai surges to his feet but before he can get involved Kira speaks again, that same one word again capturing Blue Hair's attention.

Startled, Sai doesn't move a muscle as the Coordinator reaches out and grabs Captain Ramius, hardly able to register what's happening until Blue Hair has her securely captured and is pointing a gun at her head. Apparently somewhat shocked as well, Kira gives an indignant protest, but is fast though not unkindly cut off by the other Coordinator.

"Yes," he says. "Let's talk."

_Talk?_ Sai thinks. _You explode into our ship and start killing us, now you've taken the captain hostage and you want to _talk?

Though of course they don't have much choice but to agree, a fact clearly illustrated by Lieutenant La Flaga's gruff, "Fine." He wavers slightly, clearly injured; he's the only one at all to get up again after having fallen twice. "What do you want?"

"I want not to be killed," is not unexpected, but that can't be said for, "And I want not to be separated from Kira." The brunette did warn him earlier, though – is this the friend he called out for, ill and alone, that fateful evening not so long ago?

Sai has to agree with La Flaga – the demands are reasonable, even humble. And, to his faint surprise, Blue Hair doesn't only release the captain, he even drops the pistol and kicks it towards the lieutenant. Sai isn't sure he'd have the guts to unarm himself in a ZAFT ship.

He doesn't have long to wonder about it, since only moments after stumbling free Captain Ramius' instructions honor the non-aggression pact, and Blue Hair can sink to his knees beside Kira while the Archangel crew examine their wounded.

"Call the doctor among the passenger," the captain orders, "and tell him to bring as many voluntaries as he can get. Everyone here who's able is to start helping the injured."

Sai has no idea what to do about a bleeding, death-pale Ensign Badguriel, and is so somewhat relived when La Flaga's hand closes around his shoulder.

"Unhurt?" he asks, and at Sai's nod continues, "Good. Then take this," he pauses to hand over a gun, "and bring those two," nodding discreetly in the Coordinators' direction, "somewhere else. Keep them there, try and get them talking but most importantly stay calm."

"Even with firearms I can't hinder-"

"I suggest aiming at Kira." Plainly seeing Sai's disbelieving mien (_he's my friend, no matter what involvement he might have with that Coordinator he did keep his promise and return to us after giving the girl back to PLANT_) La Flaga continues, "I'm not telling you to fire, I'm just saying that he isn't in a condition to fight effectively, and the ZAFT one doesn't seem likely to risk him. Oh, and search Blue Hair. All right?"

Not giving Sai time to protest the lieutenant disappears among the general chaos, and Sai forces himself to his feet and towards Kira and Athrun, pistol clutched nervously in one hand. Coming closer, he realizes that his brunette friend can't be hurt especially badly since neither he nor the other Coordinator is bothering to do anything about it; instead they're hugging each other closely. Blue Hair is on his knees, arms tightly around Kira so that the other is half lying, half sitting against him, and the brunette's hands are around his companion's neck.

"Um…" Sai begins intelligently, "Excuse me."

They both look up at him, Athrun's face guarded and suspicious, Kira's tired but friendly. "Sai," he greets.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I'm supposed to escort the two of you somewhere else. I trust you don't mind coming with me immediately?"

"That's fine," Kira says, and Sai crouches down to take half his weight (shot in what looks to be an already injured leg there's no way the brunette can walk) but before he's come even close to making contact Blue Hair is tensing, coiling up like a snake ready to spring. Sai stares as Kira catches the ZAFT soldier's hand in his own, intertwining their fingers and holding on as Athrun relaxes and lets his arm drop. "Easy, there," he admonishes lightly, then turns to Sai, "You don't need to help. Just lead the way."

Indeed his assistance isn't needed, seeing as the blunette scoops Kira up princess-style with what appears to be little or no effort. After an initial blushing reluctance the brunette puts one arm over his carrier's shoulder and rests his head against his body. Athrun's steps are steady and sure behind him as Sai makes his way through the corridors, aiming for a certain smallish room close to the bridge. Pistol clutched in his sweaty grip or no he's grateful to reach his goal and show them through so that he no longer needs to have the Coordinator behind him.

Remaining just inside the doorframe he watches passively as the blunette gently deposits Kira on the table and says, "We should probably check the wound." The two Coordinators nod at each other before jointly peeling away the blood-soaked cloth covering the brunette's thigh.

"How does it look?" Sai asks, coming a few steps closer. Given that Athrun's obscuring his view the question is rather literal.

"Hit just above the bandage," the blunette mutters, "so it didn't disrupt the broken bone. Now, it's a clean wound, but I'd need a pair of tweezers to remove the bullet and something to staunch the bleeding with afterwards. And we're very lucky some of the pain killing drugs they fed you at our ship must still be lingering in your bloodstream or this would hurt like a real bitch. I assume you have some sort of medical facility and associated personnel aboard?"

"Not much of that, unfortunately," Kira replies, "and I don't doubt that I'm not exactly on the top of their priorities list."

Athrun's lips thin, but he keeps his temper. "Can't do much about it now, then," he says. "We'll just have to bind it." Using the fabric ripped from Kira's trousers he proceeds to do just that, the procedure punctuated by a few moans and sucked-in breaths from the brunette.

"Err," Sai ventures when the ZAFT solider appears to be finished. How the hell do you phrase a request to body search someone anyway? "I was asked to… I mean, I'm supposed to – to check, that you… that you don't…" A few tries later he finally gets it out, a furious pink tingle to his cheeks. The anticlimax that is Athrun shrugging and nodding approval is welcome, except that now he has to actually do it.

And nevermind how the hell you ask to body search someone – the relevant question is how the hell _do_ you body search someone?

Finally, uncertainly, he puts his sweat-dewed hands on the blunette's shoulders, following them from neck to end and tracing down the arms. That part, like fingering the Coordinator's sides, is all right, but though Athrun doesn't seem to give a flying fuck, Sai is mortally embarrassed at the idea of searching the other's chest or thighs. He forces himself to do it anyway, sloppily and blushing, skimming over lean muscle and sharp bone. The thin green sweater, of a brand Sai recognizes from Fllay's occasional lectures on fashion, reveals enough to have the natural wondering how someone so thin and fine-boned can have the kind of strength that the blunette obviously does. Well, Kira is like that too, all delicate iron fists.

"I… I think I'm done now," he announces at last, and the one with the red, relieved face ought to be Athrun but it isn't. According to La Flaga's instructions Sai should attempt some sort of small talk or questioning now, see if he can get any information, but his social skills aren't precisely one of his assets and they sure don't look like they'd take kindly to being disturbed.

Just a few seconds later the door swishes open, revealing the blond lieutenant and Captain Ramius.

"Kuzzey's dead," are the first words out of the former's mouth. The brutality is shrouded in words so simple that Sai's brain refuses to process their meaning for what feels like an exceedingly long while. Kira's face goes ashen, his lips trembling and his eyes hard while the captain gives her lieutenant a half worried, half disapproving gaze. Only Athrun looks completely unfazed.

That, however, changes when Kira turns to him. "Ohmygod," he pants. "You killed Kuzzey."

"It appears reasonable to assume that, yes," Athrun agrees. Judging by his tone, Sai wouldn't be completely surprised to hear him add, _Who the hell is Kuzzey anyway?_ Or possible, _Yeah, so?_

"It's not right," Kira says. "It's not right to kill a person and then just walk away from it."

"I'll hurt if you want me to," the blunette replies, staring into purple eyes, green ones strained and sincere. "I'll die if you want me to."

Regardless of how dense he knows he is when it comes to moods and relationships, Sai doesn't doubt that Kira is moments from crying as he clutches Athrun to him, whispering words that don't need to be heard to be understood as an explanation that as far as he is concerned the other Coordinator should never hurt, can't ever die. Was Kira always this clingy? Sai can't remember the brunette ever hanging on to him this way, or to anyone else, not the way he and Athrun are constantly seeking contact, touching and staring at each other.

"If you are quite done," La Flaga interrupts them, gaining their attention though their physical proximity is still striking, "I thought I'd inform you that Tolle too is dying. The knife didn't give him any lethal puncturing but he's losing too much blood to make it without a transfusion. Now, the doctor says he can manage that procedure with fairly low risk-levels, but we don't know what blood type he needs and there's no time to check it."

_But if you provide it we don't have to, since Coordinator blood is compatible with all types._

"Of course," Kira says immediately. "We have to hurry up and help him!"

Athrun's hand firms around his shoulder. "You do not have any blood to spare."

"But you do," the brunette points out.

"Give me one reason to help him," his friend challenges.

"One normally does help people when one's able to!" Kira explodes. "One doesn't just let friends die-"

An intense green gaze cuts him off and Athrun states, "_You_ could have as much as you wanted. That person is not my friend, and if he were yours I doubt he'd have fucking shot you."

"He never intended to!" Kira argues. "He was aiming for you!"

"There was an interval of several seconds between your getting in the way and his pulling the trigger," the blunette contradicts. "_Anyone_ could have stopped in time."

"Anyone who's a Coordinator, probably," Kira says, "but not a natural. They are like that. They can't do better."

"It's true, then," Athrun concludes coldly. "They really are like children."

"Time's running out," La Flaga interjects, chasing panic over Kira's face.

"If I can have your blood, then give it to me and I'll give it to Tolle," he says to Athrun who closes his eyes briefly and sighs in defeat.

"All right," he yields. "Fine. I'll do it."

Kira smiles gratefully, and minutes later they're all in Tolle's room, which is crowded by the doctor, several volunteers and a hysterical Miriallia. Quite unceremoniously they sit Athrun down at one of the beds and tap him of blood until his skin is white as snow and he's lying down, eyelids fighting weakly against the overpowering pull of gravity.

Afterwards Miriallia remains at Tolle's bedside, having cried herself exhausted but to agitated to fall asleep, Kira lets the doctor pluck the bullet from his leg and swallows a few painkillers before curling up next to Athrun, and Sai is told to keep watch and slumps down self-pityingly on the only chair.

xxxxx


	14. Voulezvous Coucher avec moi?

**Aurora Borealis**

**Voulez-vous Coucher avec moi ce soir?**

Dearka lounges lazily on his bed, studying his nails with one eye and keeping the other trained on Yzak. Said silver-haired youngster is pacing back and forth in the room while speaking on the phone, a smallish black thing he carries around with him. Normally it might have been quite interesting to eavesdrop on the conversation, which is why normally Yzak would have thrown him out before taking the rare call, but now Dearka is content to let his gaze linger on the elegant figure of his friend, and Yzak is content to let him.

After all, Dearka doesn't speak French.

He's never had much of a talent for languages, and Japanese is quite enough for him. Councilwoman Juhle, on the other hand, is known to insist that French is the supreme language of love, hence all men to be invited into her home need to have mastered it. Needless to say this also means that her son speaks it with perfect fluency, effortlessly rambling words Dearka wouldn't even dream of pronouncing.

There is something slightly off about the talent, though, some memory or association that causes Yzak to never willingly use it. In particular, Dearka recalls a certain occurrence back in school. His own class had ended early, so he'd walked over to the classroom used for French to wait for Yzak.

"So, then," he hears the teacher say through the not-quite-closed door, "what would be the correct translation of sentence fourteen, page one hundred and thirty? Zala-san?"

Athrun sprouts something with an awful lot of consonants that Dearka comprehends absolutely nil of.

"Not quite," the teacher replies. "Anyone else? Come on, now! Admittedly this is hard, but you are supposed to be elites! Juhle-san, let's hear your thoughts on the subject."

Turning his gaze from the textbooks to the teacher, Yzak uses a cold, monotone voice for something that, as far as Dearka is concerned, sounds pretty much exactly like what Athrun just said, earning himself a glance of surprised approval from the teacher.

"Yes, exactly. Perfect pronunciation too. Well, time's up. Au revoir, mes élèves."

_Okay_, Dearka remembers thinking in shock, _so Yzak could have shown Athrun up and didn't volunteer to do it? The hell…?_

But his friend's expression didn't invite any questions, and Dearka's still not sure what is behind his aversion for the French language that he only ever uses when talking to his parents. Like now. It's vaguely annoying that Dearka isn't even sure which one of them his comrade is speaking to, since Yzak voice changes so much by switching language that Dearka can't use the tone to orient among his friend's feelings.

Now there's a last blur of, _oui_, _non_, _bien sûre_, _oui_, _oui_, _excusez-moi_, _au revoir_ before his roommate lets out a deep sigh and clicks off the phone.

"Ne, Yzak…"

"Ta goule!" his friend sneers.

One doesn't exactly need to be fluent in French to equate that with "shut up". That, however, Dearka has no intention of doing. "C'mon," he whines. "I'm bored stiff here. Talk to me. Who was that anyway?"

"En francais, s'il-tu plaît," Yzak says with a haughty look containing just a hint of amusement.

That particular phrase Dearka has heard enough times to puzzle out as a request (well, order, given the speaker) to speak in French. Ever obedient, he scrambles his brain for something appropriate; he wants company, and Yzak will leave right away if he pisses him off, his temper is frequently short after talking to his parents like this. Finally he comes up with a line from an old song that was mostly in English; he never understood the one French sentence, but it stuck in his head with the rest of the lyrics. Worth a shot, isn't it? So, taking careful note of his not-so-splendid pronunciation, he opens his mouth to say, "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"

"Veux-tu," Yzak corrects automatically before freezing up. Finally he lets out, "Qu'est-ce que tu vas faire si je dis oui?"

"Huh?" Okay, what the fuck did Yzak just say? No, scratch that – what the fuck did _he_ just say?

"Bais-moi," his friend sneers a few seconds later and storms out of the room, leaving Dearka sitting in confusion on the bed. It feels like a light bulb goes on in his head when he suddenly remembers that Nicol took French too. He has no idea whether the Blitz pilot is any good at it, but it's worth a try.

He finds the green-haired boy in his single room and squeezes through the doorway without waiting for an invitation. It's not a big room to begin with, and the piano doesn't precisely bring out what little space there is. What catches and holds his attention, though, is Nicol sitting curled up on the bed with his face buried in some sort of cloth. His head whips up at Dearka's arrival, expression caught and teary, and the blond recognizes the fabric to be a shirt, one he's seen before but not on Nicol. Something familiar lingers over the cut and color of it, but it isn't until several strained seconds of staring that he realizes it's Athrun's.

Nicol plainly expects Dearka to tease him for it, but the normal temptation isn't there, not when it dawns on him that he probably was more right than he thought when he mocked the younger boy about being in love with the blunette.

_What would I do if Yzak went MIA?_

The lack of answer in regards to the unwelcome question is profound – such a world can't exist, or at least; Dearka can't exist in a world without Yzak. It's just not possible. And so for the first time he feels a stirring of genuine sympathy for the green-haired boy who, now that he comes to think about it, has been even more quiet and withdrawn than usual since Athrun disappeared. "Yo," he says, slumping down a few feet from Nicol on the bed.

"Hey," his comrade replies, still guarded but not hostile.

"You see," Dearka begins, "I kind of got lost in translation and seem to remember that you know some French so I figured maybe you could help me."

"I'll do what I can," Nicol says, "but I'm warning you now that I'm not very good. Actually, I think you should rather ask Yzak, he speaks it as though it were his native language."

"I know," Dearka interjects dryly, "But now I'm asking you."

"Fine by me. Shoot."

Once again he makes an effort to get the sounds out right; it's probably no real problem if he gets it a little wrong with Yzak, whose grip on the language is so much better, but with Nicol he'll need to do it correctly to be understood. "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"

"No!" Nicol snaps immediately. "I don't! Get out!"

"What?" _What the _hell_ did I say? And to Yzak to boot. I'm fucking dead. He didn't seem that angry, though. Probably just saving it up till I get back. I am so fucking dead._ "I'm just asking you to tell me what it means!"

"Oh." His comrade blushes. "Sorry. But… I take it you said this to someone?"

"Yes," he bites out. "Now hurry up and translate it."

The red tint to his face deepens just a smudge as Nicol says, "I quote: Would you sleep with me tonight?'"

_Okay. Take it easy, Dearka Elthman. Breathe. It could have been worse._ Closing his eyes he bangs the back of his head against the wall. _Who am I kidding? How the hell could it have been any worse than that?_

And the very worst part, as the cheerfully evil masochist voice in his mind gleefully reminds him, is that the corny French pick-up line isn't quite as far from the realm of things he might have wanted to say to Yzak as he wishes.

'Must determine what it means', the Duel pilot told him before starting to snog him senseless, 'Must determine that it means nothing.'

Unfortunately the only thing the action clearly determined was that Dearka wants more, longs, _aches_ for more of Yzak.

"Whom did you say it to?" Nicol asks. Has he always secretly been nosy? "Someone who knew French? Wait…! You didn't want to ask Yzak – it was him, wasn't it?"

"No," Dearka sneers, "it was Le Klueze." Judging by the expression on the younger boy's face, Nicol isn't sure whether or not to believe him and Dearka sighs in exasperation. "Anyway, there's more." But for the life of him he can't remember the exact words Yzak used in response. "Something with a lot of 'k' sounds in it?" he offers at length.

Nicol shrugs apologetically. "That narrows it down to about the entire French vocabulary."

"Dammit. Wait." Yes, that last parting word, that he remembers. "Basmoa."

"Bais-moi? Okay, I've got three possible meanings for that. I did warn you that I'm not very adept at French. The verb, 'baiser', means either 'kiss' or …well, having sex… so with the 'moi', that's 'me', it becomes either 'kiss me' or 'do me'. However, I think it's also slang for 'fuck off.'"

_Right. Told you it could get worse._

Too bad there's not much need to wonder what Yzak intended it as.

xxxxx

Given that he's already occupied with a heated discussion with a very persistent and equally annoying voice in the back of his own mind, Yzak is rather grateful that for once Dearka hasn't returned to their room yet as he starts changing for the night.

_Three meanings_, he argues with himself. _'Bais-moi' has three different meanings._

_Yeah_, the voice agrees. _Too bad there's not much need to wonder what you intended it as._

_Quite right. I asked him to fuck off._

_Oh no._ Off _was not what you asked him to fuck._

_How dare you!_ he mentally sneers before realizing how ridiculous it is to direct such exhortations at oneself.

_Fine, I'll let that one slide. After all, why care about such trivialities when you'd already said those other things, hmm? He asks you to sleep with him, either in jest or in ignorance of what he's saying, and what do you go and do? Yes, you ask what he'd do if you said yes. You might as well have outright asked him to fuck you. Oh, wait. You did that too._

_Okay, possibly,_ possibly, _I asked him to kiss me, but I sure as hell didn't-_

His internal dialogue is halted by the door swishing open and admitting Dearka. _Bais-moi_, Yzak thinks before he can stop himself, and no, it isn't off that he wants Dearka to fuck. When did he turn gay anyway? Given, his interest in girls was always too small, his interest in his blond friend too big.

They share a long and mutually embarrassed but entranced stare before Dearka turns towards his own bed and starts digging around underneath it for something semi-clean to sleep in. Yzak too forces his gaze back to his own person, only allowing its return to his roommate when said person draws in a sharp breath and hastily approaches. The Duel pilot's acute awareness of how flimsy the pajama pants that are the only thing he's wearing are is only topped by his frantic awareness of how even less shelter the blond's boxers and tank top provide.

"This is new," Dearka says, placing warm fingers against a bruise on Yzak's upper torso. "This too." His other hand makes contact with a welt on Yzak's abdomen, trails the mark over his hip and downwards, fingertips teasing their way underneath the top of his pants. "It continues under here, doesn't it?"

"Don't," he forces out. "Shove off!" The words were intended a gruff demand but come out a panting plea. "I swear, I'll tickle you." His hands shoot out to do precisely that, though somehow they get equally occupied just sensing, taking in the feel of Dearka's torso under the top.

"No, shit, Yzak, not tickle!" But he does his best to reciprocate, and for the first time succeeds in hampering, indeed fully halting, the Duel pilot's attack as, either by design or accident, one tanned, beautiful hand is shown down the front of Yzak's pants.

Hissing for breath, Yzak half stumbles, half falls forward into Dearka's arms which readily receive him. "What the hell are you doing?" he sneers when at last he's regained some semblance of rational thought. Unfortunately the blond's hand still inside his pants threatens to shatter it again.

"Baising toi, of course," Dearka laughs, bending down so Yzak can twine his arms around his neck and catch his mouth in a messy, needy kiss. Distracted by pressing as close as he can get, Yzak isn't certain how they go from standing beside his bed to lying on it, but right now he sure isn't complaining.

Spread out on his backwith Dearka's mouth traversing his chest he isn't returned to here and now until the blonde once more starts paying attention to his newest scar. Yzak is far too far gone to protest as his companion frees him of the pants; he's already ripped the blond's top off, so perhaps it's only fair. Even if it isn't he has no interest in arguing, not when the action lets Dearka follow the mark down over his thigh like this.

"Ch'," the Buster pilot pants. "Who the hell did this to you, Yzak?"

"Mon père," he groans, gripping Dearka's face, raised for the inquiry, between his hands and pulling it down to kiss him violently. Apparently that kiss is the last straw for both of them, for afterwards they are only a tangle of limbs, straining desperately against hands, legs, bodies, anything to get closer, get _more_. Climax takes him somewhere far away, into a place of molten heat and release of pressure and amethyst eyes above him; it leaves him still lying atop the coverlets, trying to catch up with his pulse and with the smell of Dearka thick in his nose.

They don't look each other in the eye as the blond pushes himself to his knees, rescuing one hand from where it was trapped between their bodies while he collapsed over him. Yzak lets his own hands fall away from the heat of their skin and onto the cooler fabric of the sheets; sweat glistens on both of them, and he can feel semen sticking to his thighs.

He says and does nothing as his friend gives an uncertain cough, then swallows and gets off the bed to pad nude across the room and slip down underneath his own blankets. Closing his eyes and pushing hair out of his face Yzak follows his example, wrapping himself up and turning away from Dearka, staring at the wall.

He's never felt so cold in his life.

xxxxx


	15. Fallen Archangel

**Aurora Borealis**

**Fallen Archangel**

Waking up on the Archangel feels unexpectedly weird. He's been dozing on and off during the night, cuddling Athrun's exhaustedly limp body against his own, unable to relax sufficiently for real rest with the several other people and their noises also here. His lover's deep, regular breathing and occasional snore are welcome, calming sounds, but the wet noise of Tolle's breast heaving and Miriallia's raw hiccups are disturbing on more levels than one.

At least now Athrun seems better, though – last night he was so weak that the focus of Kira's worry abruptly transferred from Tolle to the blunette, and he was dead afraid he'd allowed them to take too much, nevermind that Athrun is both young and healthy and a Coordinator and hence fully equipped to survive blood-losses that would have killed any natural. Now, with his lover shifting restlessly against him, eyelids fluttering, he can relax.

Loosening the other's arm around his waist just a little he pushes himself into a sitting position. The attempt at stealth was sincere, but evidently he'll have to practice more if he's ever going to be able to get out of bed without waking Athrun up. The blunette was a light sleeper already before the war sharpened his reflexes into near-paranoia, and Kira's light shuffling now causes him to bolt upright, hands instinctively reaching for a weapon that isn't there.

"Good morning," Kira says pointedly, rewarded to have green eyes focusing on and smiling at him as Athrun allows himself to collapse back against the pillows, still much too pale for Kira's liking.

"Right," he replies weakly. "Morning."

The sounds of their movements and conversation appear to have raised the other occupants of the little room; Sai's throttling down a yawn as he straightens in the chair, Miriallia's looking up at them with anxious, bleary eyes from where she's still sitting at Tolle's beside. The brunette natural remains unconscious, but at least now his breathing is deep and regular.

Unwilling as he is to stare, Kira finds he can't force his gaze away. "How is he?" he asks quietly, reflecting that these are his first words to her since before he was shot down and that she might well hate him now; it disturbs him that the prospect doesn't bug him half as much as he used to imagine it would.

"Fine," she says, giving the automatic reply. Then she blinks, obviously physically tired and emotionally exhausted and adds, "Considering. They said he'll probably be all right. 'S gonna wake up soon, too. Maybe even today. Apparently Coordinator blood's real good for people." Her gaze shifts to Athrun, who returns it expressionlessly, then back to Kira and she looks about to say something but swallows it.

"How are things?" he asks Sai.

The natural, who was mostly his usual distant-awkward-kind self yesterday eve, looks strikingly angry. "Seven dead," he says. "Among them Kuzzey and Ensign Badguriel."

"Oh," Kira replies. Looking at Athrun he reflects that he should want to hit him, should scream and lash out at him, but this far after fact he desires consolation and comfort more than revenge, so what he really wishes to do is share an embrace. "I'm sorry," he adds, and that's plainly the wrong thing to say, Sai's disbelieving and betrayed expression announces that quite clearly, but it isn't until several moments later that he understands why – that it's because he spoke the lamentation as a stranger, not as someone who'd lost people too.

A glass filled with transparent liquid on the nightstand catches his attention. "What's this?" he asks nobody in particular; dips a fingertip into the substance and gives it a searching lick before an answer can be given. "Some sort of vitamin concentrate, by the taste of it." Once again the musing lacks a recipient. He nudges Athrun's shoulder. "Hey, you should have some. Here." The blunette allows himself to be scooped up and fed the beverage without resistance, and it actually brings some color back to his cheeks almost immediately. Relived, Kira's moving to put the glass back where it stood when the door swishes open.

His gaze is not the only one flying to Fllay as she enters the room, so pale she looks washed out in the usual pink attire and with dark bags so big they resemble bruises underneath her red-rimmed eyes. Obvious as these are, the clearest sign that she's still desperately grieving her father's death is the matted, plainly unwashed state of her hair.

"Is it true?" she demands, voice rising with every word until she's screaming. "We have a ZAFT Coordinator here and he's still alive? Why!" Fresh tears sparkle in her eyes and down her face. "You killed my father, you sick monster! You shouldn't ever have been allowed to exist! _You murdered my father!_"

A cold sensation steals over Kira as Sai gets to his feet and unsuccessfully tries to calm his fiancée down, Athrun glances at the two naturals before giving him a blank look under raised eyebrows and Fllay rants on, very nearly incomprehensible at this point.

"She's Fllay Allister," Kira says quietly in response to the blunette's questioning gaze. "Her father, minister Allister, was on one of the ships engaged in the last battle."

"I see." Athrun sounds surprisingly unconcerned for someone lying exhausted on an enemy ship with a hysterical teenager ranting at him; probably too tired to mind the situation. However, when Fllay directs one more accusation at him, "Why won't you say something? You killed him, didn't you? Didn't you!" cold green eyes turn to her, effectively shutting her up.

"Yes," he says. "My unit was one of those taking the EA ships down – undoubtedly your father's among them. Given that he was one of the people behind the murder of my mother, I figure we're even."

Kira feels the world drop out from underneath him as the numb quiet that proceeds the blunette's words is broken by Fllay's teary and bitter, "It's not the same thing at all! My father was a real human! Your mother was just a mistake that had to be remedied! Bitch deserved it, got what she had coming!"

Even if he'd never met Athrun before the frozen expression on the blunette's face would have practically yelled at Kira that Fllay's dead. His lover fully intends to shut her up permanently, and she has about the same odds for survival as a snowball in Hell, for blood-loss or no blood-loss Kira just barely manages to throw his arms around Athrun in time to restrain him from pouncing. Cursing the potion that keeps him from effortlessly wrestling the blunette down he struggles to hold on to the parody of an embrace – arms wrapped as tightly around his lover as he can manage, face resting against his shoulder.

"Run," he tells, begs, orders Fllay. "_Immediately._"

Fear and indecision painted over her features she remains rooted to the spot until Sai takes hold of her arm and drags her hurriedly away. After they've disappeared from sight Athrun makes a last attempt to escape, then sighs and slumps, very nearly falls, back against Kira. Steadying what, considering his thinness, is likely his lover's entire weight, the brunette inspects said lover with considerable anxiety. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open to ease his panting, and distress has drawn lines over his still snow-colored face.

"Athrun?" _Oh gods, I did let them take too much._

The sound that answers him is… a sigh? A sob? Laughter? Whatever it ought to be identified as, it's bitter and uncontrolled and has the blunette shaking. "Yeah," he says at length, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Captain Ramius and Lieutenant La Flaga, the latter bandaged and jumping on crutches, have entered. Disinterested in anything that isn't Athrun and calming him down, Kira too ignores the new arrivals and the blunette continues, "I can't believe I let myself think co-existence could be beneficial. Good lord, that's what naturals are like, they're EA and Blue Cosmos and they destroyed Junius Seven and I should never have allowed myself to forget that for even a second, but I disregarded it and saved one of their damned lives! Some son I am, huh?"

He might have said more, but the short pause becomes considerably longer than it was probably intended to be when the lieutenant quietly steps forward and belts him a good one across the face. Without a sound the blunette crumbles, collapsing heavily over Kira's lap. Barely able to process what's happening the brunette catches La Flaga's still-raised hand in a grip millimeters short of breaking the natural's wrist. "What the hell are you doing?" he demands, his voice an unfamiliar hissing. Even Athrun's weak movements, which indicate that at least he's still conscious, don't have much of a lessening effect on his fury.

The blond man's face is pale, but it's Sai's hurt voice from the doorway that says, asks, accuses, "You're on his side?"

That has been so obvious to him for so long by now that he's actually a little surprised by the question. "Yes," he agrees, calming a bit though keeping his grip around La Flaga's fist. "And since when did this degenerate into an issue about sides?"

"Since he started killing us," the lieutenant says tightly, the touch of sarcasm strained by the obvious discomfort caused by Kira's much too hard hold.

"Please," the captain intercedes. "Let's all calm down. Release him, would you, Kira-kun?"

"Can I trust you to not to make any further aggressive moves?" It isn't until he registers the pallor of the blond's skin that he remembers that the need to make such an inquiry should gall him. It doesn't; the only thing that nauseates him is the idea of Athrun hurt, and he has to consciously prevent himself from tightening his grip enough to break a few of La Flaga's fingers. However, when the man nods acquisance not to cause further damage he lets him go in favor of helping a still sprawled Athrun sit up. The punch, which has painted the left side of his face an angry red in screaming contrast to the sickly lack of color dominating the rest of his face, appears to have drained the last of the blunette's reserves, rendering him a limp weight. Eventually, though, his eyes blink open and manage to remain focused and lucid.

"Nobody would have had to die if you hadn't suddenly started shooting at us," Kira says then, returning to the question of when this boiled down to with us or against us.

La Flaga shows the grace to blush lightly as he looks up from examining his injured wrist to explain, "It was a mistake. One of the junior officers happened to inadvertently push his trigger while he was struggling with the safety."

With his lover evidently still too worn out to speak a new challenge, Kira voices the incredulity in the green eyes, "So the entire incident, including the casualties, was due to your own lack of preparation and competence, and yet you have the audacity to try and pin it on someone else?"

Placing a calming hand on the blond man's arm, Captain Ramius attempts to explain, "As you know our resources leave much to wish for on every level, which is the only reason you ended up in Strike to begin with. Little combat training is required for technical personnel, but we had no one else."

"Civilians are more risk than gain in any dangerous situation." Kira's reply isn't, really; rather, it's a simple establishing of fact the denial of which demands further explanation.

Mu La Flaga gives him a look he can't decipher, one resigned and a little wistful. "You've become a Coordinator."

Normally he'd probably have reacted positively to a philosophical remark like that, but not now, not with Athrun leaning helplessly against him, cheek still bright red and beginning to swell. "I've always been a Coordinator," he replies. "I wasn't aware that that was necessary to practice common sense."

"I don't believe it is," the captain says calmly, plainly refusing to get agitated. A wise decision, and an admirable feat, as the only other unruffled individual present is the unconscious Tolle. Miriallia's staring, though with no expression Kira can identify, Athrun's tense beneath the exhaustion, and himself, La Flaga and Sai are all ready to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. Forcing a deep breath into his lungs, he attempts to expel his agitation.

"Now," Captain Ramius continues, "kindly don't take this as insulting, but given the situation I'm sure you understand our anxiety to clarify your standing. Though I generally agree with your denunciation of sides, please specify your current loyalties."

It feels like a kick in the stomach, a sensation rendered even worse by the fact that he can clearly understand her reasoning. "I respect and care for all of you," he says, "and I would certainly not wish to harm you." He pauses, uncomfortable but certain. "However, I will never let you hurt Athrun."

"I see. In that case…" She's interrupted by a discreet knock at the doorway, following which someone hands her a few papers and what looks vaguely like a notebook. Nodding once, twice, she talks briefly and in low tones with the deliverer before dismissing him and gesturing for La Flaga to join her examination of the materials. Seconds later the gazes from two wide pairs of eyes fly from the papers to Athrun and back, the lieutenant's hand tightening around the brunette woman's shoulder.

"Athrun Zala," he reads aloud, blue gaze trained on the couple on the bed. "Solider of the Le Klueze Team of the ZAFT elite forces, designated pilot of the Gundam Aegis." He pauses. "Son of Patrick Zala of the PLANT Supreme Council."

Sharp breaths are drawn by Sai and Miriallia; the former looks about ready to faint. Athrun's expression remains just tired as he says, "Yes. As you are obviously already aware."

"Lost someone on Junius Seven?" La Flaga inquires, not unkindly.

This, however, is not a subject to be taken in any way lightly, as Athrun's strained and somewhat short, "There isn't a person in PLANT who didn't", bears witness to. "Mostly all of my mother's side of the family lived there. She was visiting her parents for the Valentine Holiday."

This time Kira's tightening of his embrace most assuredly isn't to restrain. _You lost that many?_ Not that he'd need to restrain in any case – Athrun is as slumped and pale as ever, and clearly lightheaded and possibly confused to boot for his tongue and temper to have slipped free like this.

"My condolences," Captain Ramius offers, sincerity and sympathy in her voice and face. "I think we are just a bit surprised that you're so young to be involved in a war, especially one like this where the sides are even enough that it seems it might drag on forever."

Athrun gives a sad sort of snort-smile. "There are twelve-year-olds training to become ZAFT pilots." That simple statement is what fully clarifies how huge a catastrophe Junius Seven was to PLANT; to earthen nations it was a great tragedy, certainly, but still on the same scale as other such unfortunate events through history, whereas on PLANT it's _real_, not a scar but an open wound the persistent picking on which assures that it cannot even begin to heal. "And don't tell me you honestly believe you can keep up as equals in a long-term conflict; PLANT was holding back under Chairman Clyne. That won't be the case after the new election. PLANT will win this war, that much is already fact. It's only the price that has yet to be decided, and whatever that turns out to be it won't be considered too high." He trails off, blinking a few times before demanding very calmly, "What the hell did you spike that vitamin concentrate with?"

Though they don't appear uncomfortable per say, the EA officers don't seem exactly comfortable either as the captain eventually says, "Just a few drugs to enhance the chance of your talking and being sincere. They probably wouldn't have had any effect on you normally, but given the blood-loss we thought it might do some good."

Athrun simply nods, looking neither shocked nor angered – the one gawking at and gagging on the shameless betrayal is Kira himself. "How could you?" he asks. "I know what happened with Lacus, but there was no need – there's no excuse for something like this. He just saved Tolle's life, and you drug him?"

"Easy," the blunette says, hand brushing lightly over Kira's.

Caught up in surprise over his lover's unexpected serenity, his head snaps up anew as La Flaga agrees, "Yeah, relax, kid. Being the kind of solider he is, he has to have expected this kind of thing when he let us at him."

"ZAFT didn't interrogate me," Kira argues, not wanting the thought, _he knew, plainly he knew they'd do something to him, and yet he agreed to help Tolle – because I asked him to_. "Not once, not about anything save my personal views on the war." They did drug him, but not in secret; he'd even given his consent to the treatment.

"I suppose we'll be content to keep to personal opinions as well," Captain Ramius says. "After all, I would very much appreciate some enlightenment concerning the newest passenger on our ship. Now, Athrun-san, young as you are, you've obviously spent quite some time battling, and I would like to inquire as to how you deal with the losses on both sides."

Athrun looks her in the eyes with every appearance of cold, speculative calm; then he swallows repeatedly, as though unsuccessfully trying to push words back down in his throat. "The EA is the culprit behind Junius Seven and thus behind the entire war – hence it's only the logical conclusion that every death, regardless of whose and by whose hands, is on said organization's conscience."

"Is that… the opinion of ZAFT at large?" the brunette woman asks softly at long length.

The blunette's smile is blank and edgy as a knife. "I believe we have already established the connection between Coordinator genes and sound reasoning."

xxxxx


	16. Far End of the Rabbit Hole

**Aurora Borealis**

**At the Other End of the Rabbit Hole**

Athrun doesn't remember ever being this weak in his entire life. His insides are coiling in sickly tension, so pumped with adrenaline that he could move as fast and suddenly as ever if need be; unfortunately he's so exhausted that the endorphins make him lightheaded-verging-on-faint and cause a mild wave of nausea to wash through him. Scattered thought-fragments drift aimlessly in his mind despite his desperate efforts to organize them; there was warmth and comfort, rest, but now he's sitting up and where's the gun? and he has no idea where he is because fatigue has turned his vision into a single spectrum of white light spiraling in front of him and making his dizziness worse.

"Good morning," comes Kira's blessed voice, and he attempts to turn towards the sound though he still can't see but the movement is too much for him, the bright whiteness takes over completely. Not registering that he's fallen until it has abided, he finally manages to focus his gaze.

Yes, lying down is much, much easier – though with effort, he can breath without choking and he can see again, can see Kira bending worriedly over him. "Right," he mumbles as the sight brings memory with it; _shuttle Archangel battle killed natural blood now what the hell is gonna happen._ But thinking is a heavy process, far too heavy for him in this weakened state. "Morning," he forces out as the white light returns, obliterating everything. Panting and trying frantically to either close his eyes or use them, he can only lie there as Kira talks to the other people obviously in there with them. The brief glance-over he managed originally, before the brightness first invaded his vision, revealed another bed containing the natural boy whose veins the blood Athrun lacks pumps through, a girl he vaguely recalls from the previous evening and the guy who made that pathetic attempt at a body search.

Severely uncomfortable and more than a tad reluctantly frightened, he forces himself to focus on Kira's presence and just relax, _have to rest, need to rest to regain my energy, just calm down._

According to the fractured dialogue slipping past his fatigue, the natural with the gun, the one he thinks was called Tolle or something very similar to that, will probably be fine – well, good. Kira would be so upset otherwise, and so would he, considering what he's presently going through because of his contribution to the efforts to save the other boy.

Next thing he knows his lover is slipping an arm around his shoulder to steady him into a sitting position and pressing a glass to his lips. "Some kind of vitamin concentrate, by the taste of it." Soft fingers save his head from lolling off Kira's shoulder. "Here, you should have some." Thankfully he's able to swallow without gagging as the brunette tips the glass and liquid spills down his throat. Even better is the fact that though it sits uneasily on his stomach, the whatever-it-was does rejuvenate him quite a bit. Not enough for him to muster much attention for the ...girl, judging by the sound of her voice, and quite an upset girl… that enters, but enough for him to flick Kira a questioning glance as some of what she says registers, primarily a high-pitched, "_You murdered my father!_"

Her name rings a bell, though Allister more so than Fllay. No, wait… _and Fllay Allister, she's kinda hot and Tolle and them thought…_ Her father remains the more familiar figure, however; he'd memorized most of the Atlantic Federation and EA executives long before he joined ZAFT.

"Why won't you say something? You killed him, didn't you? Didn't you!" the girl's saying now, and he probably shouldn't let it but something snaps.

"Yes," he agrees, staring into wide doe-blue eyes tainted red at the edges. _Yes, I helped kill him and though it makes me want to peel off my own skin to get the stain away I won't ever say I regret it, not him or anyone like him._ "Given that he was one of the people behind the murder of my mother, I figure we're even."

"It's not the same thing at all! My father was a real human! Your mother was just a mistake that had to be remedied! Bitch deserved it, got what she had coming!"

He's moving before he's even fully realized that she actually had the nerve to say what she did; while his mind's still reeling with detached, rage-tinted shock his body makes ready to attack. Trashing against the arms holding him (_Kira let me go, how can you try to stop me_) and simultaneously fighting off impending boots of violent nausea and exhaustion he almost fails to notice the escape of Allister's daughter and that other guy, but when he does the last strength abandons him, leaving him slumped and panting, half-lying in Kira's arms. It hurts, no, _hurts_ doesn't begin to cover it, his head feels like it's splitting in half and, yes, his mother's dead, and he's let her down, betrayed her. Horrible, indefinable noises escape him, and he gladly lets them, too damn sick to care to even attempt to stop the words that follow them, "I can't believe I let myself think co-existence could be beneficial. Good lord, that's what naturals are like, they're EA and Blue Cosmos and they destroyed Junius Seven and I should never have allowed myself to forget that for even a second, but I disregarded it and saved one of their damned lives! Some son I am, huh?"

The punch takes him by surprise – there's a bleak and startled sensation of hurt, then dislocation as he falls, and finally just a new view of blinding whiteness. Upset sounds bombard his ears but he can't make sense of them, doesn't recognize them clearly enough to decide whether they're even speech. However, his recovery is faster than he had any right to expect, taking in consideration his generally lousy condition and the fact that it wasn't exactly a light hit; it can't have been more than a minute or so before he's able to distinguish a hurt, heated, "You're on his side?"

So he's the issue here. Well, no surprise there and he can't honestly say he blames them. Then his heart swells in a way that's painful in a completely different manner than the hit and the exhaustion, with a warm ache brought about by Kira's simple, "Yes." Distracted by this, he fades out again until the brunette takes hold of him, easing him upward. Saving his reserves, he pays only moderate attention to the conversation taking place now, which mostly consists of Kira exploring the thorough stupidity of the naturals – he'd always assumed that a majority of the usual Coordinator prejudice against them were lies, but that seems less and less likely for every second he actually spends with them. What catches his attention and breath is the captain's hesitantly worded question regarding his lover's loyalties; the "I respect and care for all of you. However, I will never let you hurt Athrun" is an elixir, enabling him to actually focus on the situation at hand when at length the natural officers start waving around his identification papers. Those are bad enough in their own right, and of course it was too much to hope for that they'd neglect to connect his name to his father.

"Lost someone on Junius Seven?" the blond man who hit him asks. The Hawk of Endymion, even with a few nasty bruises, most of which courtesy of Athrun's left foot, of his own decorating his face, manages to look fairly amiable.

The newly reawakened pain is still fresh, though. Athrun suspects it won't ever grow stale. "There isn't a person on PLANT who didn't," he states, his voice so cold that it sounds unfamiliar to his own ears. Before he can stop to think about it the story of his mother and her family and that terrible Valentine when he'd have gone with her to visit them, had it not been for a couple of exams and a pair of broken ribs, spills out.

"My condolences," the brunette woman says with what seems to be genuine regret; it's hard to tell because his sight is blurry, whether because of fatigue or unshed tears he isn't certain. Neither is he able to tell if the sound ripping free from his mouth when she starts talking about his being "so young" is a laugh or a sob. He isn't young; he hasn't been for a very long time. He isn't old, either, certainly not, but he's seen young people and they're different from him. Same's the case with the very smallest recruits, whom he really shouldn't be blabbering about; they have the age and bodies of youth but they aren't young. They can act as though they were, but they aren't really, not like the girl serving at the café yesterday or the friends she giggled with at the cashier or the little boys ogling Nicol.

Emotional and physical exhaustion isn't sufficient excuse for the way he's speaking now, giving away lots and lots of arrogance and information, thus evidently they were at least smart enough to take advantage of the situation, naturals or not. " What the hell did you spike that vitamin concentrate with?" he asks, hoping to identify the drugs so as to be able to make a likely guess at when they'll stop affecting him.

Given that they openly admit both the spiking in itself and the fact that it would normally have been a wasted effort indicate that it isn't very strong stuff, so he should be fine fairly soon; though it annoys him he isn't in a position to complain, and somewhat ironically the drugging is obviously worse on Kira.

"Easy," Athrun says. _It's all right, I'm fine, they aren't worth it; I understand they betrayed your trust but they didn't deserve it in the first place, don't burden yourself on account of them any longer, it'll be fine, please let it be all right._

_Besides_, _we did inject a much worse potion in you, which I ought never to have allowed, like you shouldn't allow yourself to get hurt like this. Ne, Kira, is this how you felt when you woke up on our ship? All confused and helpless because you suddenly understood how the other side thinks?_

When the captain directs another question at him he's forced to snap back to attention. Now, how he handles the inevitable casualties? _Or is she talking about the not-inevitable ones?_

Before he's made any conscious decision his mouth goes off on him again, repeating the thesis that is so obvious and accepted that it's never needed to be made into any sort of official slogan; the one responsible for the war is the EA, thus the one responsible for every death is the EA. That kind of simplified logic ought to be clear even to a natural.

Faintness is creeping up on him again, hanging heavily on his eyelids, as someone – he thinks it's the woman but he can't be sure – asks the familiar question: "Do you hate naturals?"

Struggling to keep his eyes open and his mind semi-alert he pretty much slurs, "I don't. PLANT as a whole doesn't. Even ZAFT as an organization doesn't have any official policy against naturals as a group. Most of the people I know have never even met one. I know there are good ones, kind ones – then again those aren't part of the EA."

He's too tired to reflect on how stupid an utterance that is to make; they don't seem hostile enough to actually hurt him, and the EA nuked Junius Seven and that is more or less the definition of _unforgivable._

Now… Now what's…? His eyes are useless again, and static noise is invading his ears as limp heaviness steals upon his limbs. "Kira…?" he mumbles, fingers refusing to do more than twitch, defying his order for them to reach.

"Yes," his lover says, and he doesn't need to reach because Kira encloses his hand in his own. "Yes, Athrun, I'm here. You need to relax so you can get some more proper sleep."

It doesn't register on him that his eyes fall shut, but they must have because when they open again he's someplace else – still tucked into bed, but in a different room, a smaller and less painfully bright one. Ironically, though it's still unfamiliar it feels a little like their dorm room, what withthe two standardized beds, the sparse, cheaply fabricated furniture. Drearier and more impersonal than both their old room in school, which they lived in long enough for it to become home, and the one he more recently shared with Rusty. At least he had a few dozen books there, and the mandatory plants provided some color. Plus his roommate, though nowhere near as sloppy as Dearka, wasn't exactly the tidiest person around.

Actually, the first few weeks in ZAFT were one great, literal mess for all of them, as they are all from rich families and hence used to spot-less surroundings without doing any cleaning themselves. In school there were still employees who took care of those issues, but there aren't cleaners on battle ships and Athrun remembers being exceedingly grateful to have spent sufficient time at Kira's to gain a rudimentary idea of the mysterious inner workings of cleaning. He also vividly remembers Yzak cursing his failed attempts to manufacture a vacuum cleaner. Rusty used to occasionally attempt to tease Athrun about being a neat freak, but he's not even in the same liege as Yzak; it surprises him, come to think of it, that mega-slob Dearka has survived this long.

A mechanical chirping brings him out of his musings, grounds him in the here and now, and he flicks his gaze around to find Torii perched on the other bed. The toy is exactly the same as when he last saw it; still a bright jade, still a dumbly sentimental symbol of an emotion that wasn't supposed to be. But it was and it still is and he's all the gladder for it and trying to visually locate Kira without having to move his head; he's better, considerably better, but not enough so that he wants to risk any unnecessary movements. A field of brown found in his peripheral vision catches his attention; it would seem his lover is lying down as well, head tucked underneath Athrun's chin.

"Kira," he calls quietly, gratified to find his voice only momentarily slurring on the first syllable.

The brunette pushes himself up on one elbow to lean down over him, the movement abrupt enough for the sudden dipping of the mattress to remind him that, though fading, the nausea is still with him. Momentarily closing his eyes, he takes the time to convince himself that he is not going to puke, no matter what say his stomach thinks it has in the matter.

"Athrun?" Kira asks, one hand brushing against his uninjured cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," he croaks in response, "but then again I've been worse too. Where…?"

"We're in my old room." Kira gives a bitter little smile. "Given that my siding with you is out in the open they decided it was best to confine us both until further notice. Even Haro could pick the locks around here so I'm not sure why the bother, but apparently it makes them feel safer to place us somewhere and pretend we can't leave."

"I'm sorry," Athrun says. _I'm sorry you lost your friends_ "Thank you." _because you chose me._

His lover shrugs a little. "You know, when I woke up on the ZAFT ship I knew I should be terrified and scared and angry. But I was just so happy."

_That makes two of us._ Kira's hand finds his and he squeezes back as best he can.

"I know it's rather strained for now," the brunette continues, "but it'll work itself out. I… told them about my potion, so they know you're the only one who can operate Strike and help handle the systems and all that. They're… most of them are good people. Will you try and get along with them while we're here?"

He manages a miniscule nod. "Of course." Not like he has a choice, and not like they seem that bad. He still resents the incompetent who shot Kira, but perhaps that was truly not the natural's fault, the captain has been kind, and whereas the boy with the ridiculous glasses isn't on his list of favorite people he doesn't have anything against him, the Hawk of Endymion has done nothing worse than his father has, and with no less good reason, and even that little idiot red-haired bitch… Anger still gripes in the back of his mind, but calmer and with some distance between them he can drown it out with pity and understanding, even a brief touch of sympathy. After all, he knows very well what it feels like to lose a family to war.

"Of course," Kira echoes, looking a tad embarrassed and all the more adorable for it. "It's just that you were so furious about… about Fllay. Could you really have killed her just like that?"

Apparently whatever inhibition-reducing serums they fed him haven't completely worn off yet, for he finds himself saying, "I've enough blood on my hands that a little more or less doesn't make much of a difference."

"It does to me."

Lost and found and caught in endless amethyst eyes, there is really only one thing he can say to that.

"Thank you."

Kira bends down the few millimeters needed to brush their lips together before lying back down, pointy nose cold against Athrun's neck. "They won't hurt us as long as we don't hurt them. They want us to stay in here for now and I agreed, but I expect that's merely a temporary measure." He shuffles minutely, inching closer yet. "Go to sleep," he says, and once again Athrun lacks both the inclination and the ability to refuse his lover's wishes.

xxxxx


	17. The Mandatory Shower Scene

**Aurora Borealis**

**The (Gratuitous?) Shower S**c**ene**

In regular circumstances Dearka takes every opportunity to gain a little extra sleep, but for some reason he now finds himself wide awake at what his trusty (according to him; Yzak claims it's worthless) internal clock declares to be a very early hour. Before it even consciously registers on him that something's off he's blindly searching the bed for what's missing. Except the rumpled sheets and his own person there's nothing there; and why should there be? he asks himself when the nightmare or whatever that woke him up has faded sufficiently to allow him to reason.

"Yzak?" he says aloud, for that's what's not right – Yzak should be here. Frighteningly light sleeper that the silver-haired youth is, Dearka never even has the opportunity to jerk off and thus ought to have company by now. Nothing can convince him that his recent shuffling and panicked panting left Yzak sleeping, and privacy is a foreign word between them. Why the hell isn't he up?

Probably for the same reason Dearka is simultaneously longing for his closeness and nervously grateful that he isn't getting it.

_Did that even really happen?_

Sure, there's been a lot of weird shit going on lately, they've gone fairly far, but there's still a rather wide step between that and what his memory insists they did a few hours earlier on Yzak's bed. Their kisses tasted like lilac smells.

_Whoa_, he admonishes himself, cutting that train of thought off. _Tread easily there._

Fevered fantasies aside, he has a hard time believing that he came on to Yzak that way – much less that his comrade let him. Not to mention how they ended up engaging in some sort of hand-job-rub-off-whatever.

His body carries proof of its own foolish actions, though, little cuts from Yzak's nails, a small number of bruises from his harder kisses, and the lips he's absently fingering now are still swollen. Clearest of all, the other pilot is still pretending to sleep. As Dearka has already established, there's no way in hell he isn't awake, even disregarding the too-light breathing, and any other day he'd call his bluff but not tonight, not when he's so unsure what has happened and what will happen. In particular, the _why_s elude him.

His friend was just being his usual irresistible self when Dearka, also in line with the regular, couldn't keep from sneaking a few glances at him while they changed. And there were new injuries there, markings of indefinable and unexplored bad things on Yzak's near-perfect form, and he had to look, had to touch, to make sure it was all right.

The other didn't hit him this time. No, he certainly didn't, and when he tripped him it was simply in order to pull him down onto the bed.

_Holy shit, he even went so far as to answer me when I asked about the culprit…!_ he belatedly realizes. Now, if only he hadn't been too caught up in the moment to pay proper attention, if only he'd been able to understand panted French. Fortunately or otherwise, he has the inkling he doesn't need to, that his long-ago suspicion is correct. He'll ask Nicol about the French word for _father_ tomorrow – or today, seeing as they have probably passed midnight. Not that such things matter much in space, where they sleep and work in shifts directed by lamps.

The real question is what he'll do about the knowledge he is almost certain to acquire. If Yzak didn't want him to do anything he wouldn't have told him, right?

On the other hand, if Yzak did want him to do something, wouldn't he have told him long ago? Wasn't it just a fluke, a slip during a time when he was ready to say anything for Dearka not to stop what he was doing?

…if Yzak trusted him that much, wouldn't he have wanted him to stay?

But his expression afterwards was unreadable, and that's rarely good sign. Actually, Dearka only ever remembers seeing it on the other's face in connection to certain family issues, such as the very abuse he so recently received an answer about. That sort of blank, vulnerable look is wrong on Yzak, for uncountable reasons and in countless ways, and it twists at Dearka's insides in a manner not so much painful as panicked.

Passivity, too, is all wrong for the hotheaded Juhle heir, and it was rather obviously Dearka's fault it was there, and if Yzak had wanted anything more from him but to leave, surely he would have said or done something to that effect?

He didn't, didn't do anything at all, and hence Dearka had to get away and he did and now he really wishes he hadn't. However, he isn't ready to start deducing the exact nuances of that just yet.

_Tomorrow_, he tells himself. _Tomorrow I'll speak to Nicol and ask him to translate and I'll see how things are with Yzak and if need be I'll fix them. Tomorrow._

When he wakes up again a few hours later the room is deserted; normally he trusts Yzak to get him out of bed in time, either by yelling at him or by dropping his blankets on the floor, but today his roommate has left on his own. Dearka's fortunate there isn't much to be done onboard right now, he reflects as he collects the pieces of his uniform that he strew all over the room last night, or he'd be in quite a bit of trouble for oversleeping this late.

Yzak's bed, pristinely made as usual, taunts him from its place on the far wall, and it is with some satisfaction that he takes in the results of his examination; it's stained.

Nodding absently to a few people saluting him, he makes his way to the cafeteria and gets himself some breakfast before spotting Nicol at one of the tables. Mildly surprised he wanders over and dumps himself in a chair next to the other pilot's.

"Morning," he says. "But here I thought I was the only one who hadn't been up a couple hours already?"

The green-haired boy shrugs a little, toying with his spoon. "I've been up a while. Just didn't feel like eating until now."

"Okay..." While baffled at the idea of not having breakfast immediately after getting out of bed, Dearka nonetheless manages to take this information in stride; he's always known Nicol's a bit weird and possibly somewhat daft as well. "Well, could you translate 'father' for me?"

He's not really requesting so much as telling the other to do it, and Nicol replies, "Into French? Père."

Was that what his… friend… said? He doesn't know, and perhaps it doesn't matter. Mechanically stuffing his face for a bit, he eventually gathers the courage and impatience to ask, "Where's Yzak?"

"Last I saw he was working on Duel. That was right before I left to get some food; twenty minutes ago, maybe," Nicol informs before pausing to take a brief sip of his milk. Bleah. "What's up with you two anyway? You've been acting all strange and awkward lately."

His recent sympathy for Nicol's losing Athrun and appreciation of the younger boy's handy translations aren't enough to counter that. "None of your business," he says coldly, letting his voice go from the rather friendly tone he has recently employed with the Blitz pilot and back to the nasty drawl they're both better used to. Amber gaze stays put on its owner's lap as Dearka abruptly pushes his chair back and leaves, half his meal still on the table.

His hands, fisted in his pockets, are dewed with a thin layer of sticky sweat as he enters the machine hall, ignoring the technicians fluttering about and saluting him to search for Yzak. As expected, the other pilot is seated in Duel's open cockpit, seemingly working on some kind of programming.

Before he's been able to decide whether to approach or flee Dearka finds himself stomping off against the floor and floating towards him. When he catches himself against the edge of the cockpit Yzak looks up briefly, flicking him an apprehensive blue glance before determinedly turning his gaze and attention back to the keyboard under his hands.

"Hey," Dearka says, nervous and all the more irritated for it. What's up with Yzak anyway? First he ignored him when he woke up, then he left him to oversleep and now he's attempting to pretend he isn't here? Well, enough is enough!

The Duel pilot's fingers still for a moment before resuming their typing.

"Hey," Dearka repeats in a slightly louder voice when it's become clear that his comrade isn't planning to reply.

"Hey," Yzak finally echoes. "Go away."

Back on more familiar ground, the blond makes himself comfortable where he is. "You'd like that, huh? I sort of figured that much, given how you sneaked out this morning."

"You complaining?" Yzak says in a chilly, bland tone. "You left rather eagerly yourself last night."

"I didn't," he protests, fighting a surge of illogical hope. "I just did what you wanted."

"What _I_…!" Giving the technician staring at them his patented Glare-of-Exceedingly-Painful-Death-that-you-will-Beg-to-Receive-for-Years-before-I-Finally-Grant-it-to-you, Yzak lowers his tone a notch or two. "You're an idiot."

Dearka just shrugs, for there's warmth in that. "You've never minded before," he says lightly.

Yzak mirrors his shrug. "I guess not."

Offering a smile and a bit of a wave, Dearka makes his way to Buster in order to get some work done as well. There is that adjustment he's been meaning to try on one of the cannons… Choosing not to make too close an examination of why making up with Yzak is such a relief he finishes the task on autopilot before leaving to lunch with his roommate. They are still a little awkward, shrugging away from each other when their arms brush and giving sudden stares, but it's working and that's all right. The question of whether Yzak said _père_ last night will have to wait. They both seem content to ignore what happened on the Duel pilot's bed, and at least for now that's a great relief; and for now, at least, his inappropriate desire is curbed.

A few days later and they're back to normal, with only a few fading marks and speculative, hesitant glances to remind them that something's changed. Then, one of these calm, regular mornings that he's learned to treasure, Dearka once again wakes up first. This time he's ready to buy that Yzak's still asleep; indeed, he sure hopes that that's the case, since that would mean he didn't say anything aloud while dreaming. Clenching his teeth he carefully pushes his blankets away and fishes around in the heaps of clothing decorating his half of the room for a towel. A shower is in order, and one as far from Yzak as possible.

Not that that's very far, given that their bathroom is of course directly connected to their bedroom, but it's the thought that counts, right? Closing the door behind him, he has the unwanted remembrance that the lock isn't working; Yzak broke it during one of his tantrums, and they've been meaning to replace it ever since but never actually got around to it. Well, it doesn't really matter; he's survived like this for several weeks by now, and this far it hasn't been much of a problem. Getting the water running he frees himself from his nightclothes and steps into the shower.

At pass five minutes later the noise of water hitting the floor of the shower-stall is interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open to admit a sleepy Yzak in his customary too-large pajama and with a toothbrush in one hand. Not for the first time Dearka is exceedingly grateful that the shower-stall walls are only semi-transparent from the outside (of course, when Yzak's the one cleaning up he usually curses this fact) for bleary or not blue eyes are fixed unblinkingly on him.

"I'm trying to shower here," he calls over the water-sounds and the hammering of his own heart. "Get out."

"No way," Yzak replies flatly. "Lazy bum that you are, the bathroom has gotten used to having me in it first, and I'll certainly not suffer waiting just because you woke up at an agreeable hour for once. Plus you've been in here lots of times when I'm still doing my hair."

"That's only because you're so slow about it!" Dearka argues.

"I'll have you know that that's my warm water you're wasting," Yzak declares in a huff. "And if there's none left for me you'll be sorry, so get out of there this instant!"

"You want your warm water? Well, you're welcome to come in here and get it." What the fuck is he saying? Sure, he's not about to give up the argument, but if his roommate were to actually take him up on his offer one doesn't need to be a genius to realize that the evening on Yzak's bed won't be the last thing they do. "I'm not leaving."

"Yes, you are," Yzak insists. "I'm not going without my morning shower, and I'm not sharing with you."

"Though." He plasters on a cocky smirk. "Is widdle Yzak-pooh afraid of big bad men in the shower? Never knew you were such a chicken."

"I am not," Yzak bites out.

"Prove it," Dearka challenges, and is more surprised by the other pilot's momentary hesitation than by his entering the shower, still dressed in the thin, loose nightclothes. It takes only moments for the water bearing down on them to turn said nightclothes into a soggy second skin; whether the heat glowing on both their cheeks is brought about by the temperature or this fact he chooses not to speculate in as he tugs lightly at Yzak's pajama shirt.

"Shouldn't you take this off?" he manages through a throat that is suddenly thick and tight.

Blue gaze caught by purple, Yzak stares mutely but rather expressively at him before slowly reaching to unbutton his top. The action makes Dearka's pulse speed up desperately; he can't breath or think and Yzak has got to have noticed how turned on he is and is making it worse and dear god _Yzak is undressing in front of me._

'Beautiful' is a word he knows his comrade wouldn't take kindly to being associated with, and it doesn't begin to cover it anyway so Dearka doesn't say it; instead he simply swallows and can't stop staring as the shirt flutters to the floor.

Yzak's face is rosy and his eyes trained on the floor, only occasionally sneaking peeks at Dearka; then he snorts and straightens and reaches past Dearka for the soap, and the movement has his arm brushing against Dearka's side. Triggered by the touch, Dearka wounds his arms around Yzak and draws him in, flush against his own body. There's no time to moan before he bends and presses a kiss on the other's parted lips, not needing to ask for permission before drowning his groan in Yzak's welcoming mouth.

Said roommate's hand mold themselves around Dearka's hips, fingers splayed open and gracing more of his skin by the second. In return he lowers his face to pay homage to Yzak's jawline, gratified to have the other's now-free mouth spill out increasingly frantic sounds. "Ah…!" he exclaims sharply as Dearka's hand curves around his buttock, then sneaks around to the front of his body. He offers no resistance, merely clings and parts and presses close as Dearka nudges him back against the wall and bends further, reacquainting himself with neck and chest and abdomen before going even lower.

It's strange but not unpleasant and Yzak's wailing is rewarding, like the pale fingers tightening around Dearka's scalp though in a less painful manner. "…rka!" he cries, and shudders, and sags against the wall. Searchingly trailing the tip of his tongue around his own lips to catch the last of the foreign substance, Dearka hesitantly gets to his feet again. Yzak's face is lowered, wet silver bangs clinging to it and obscuring most of it from view, his breathing slowly evening itself out. _Did I go too far?_

_Idiot_, the damn voice in his head replies rather angrily. _You just blew your best friend in the shower, and you need to_ ask _if you went too far?_

But that voice can shut right up again, because Yzak's lifting his face, and while he isn't smiling he doesn't look angry either. One pale hand fits itself around Dearka's face, pulls it down upon the Duel pilot's mouth and if he weren't okay with everything he wouldn't kiss him like this, would he?

Suggestively glancing downwards, Yzak whispers, "Want me to…?"

_If_ he wants; he's boiling, coiling, hardly able to nod. The other flicks him a smirk before dropping to his knees, and then there are… no words at all to describe anything. Wet heat and suction are good enough, no, _good_ doesn't even begin to cover it, and on top of it there's the silver hair, the identity of his partner. _Oh god,_ explodes in his head, whether in bliss or horror he can't tell, _Yzak is…is…!_

Seconds later he's leaning weak and spent against the wall, feeling his roommate tug at his hand and obediently pulling him to his feet. He shouldn't speak, not now when everything's so brittle, but the sex seems to have loosened his tongue, for he says, "I think I know whom you told me about before, but I'll ask again to confirm: who beats you up?"

With a little shrug Yzak removes his hand from Dearka's chest and reaches for a towel, pausing to turn off the water. "Mon père," he says and wraps himself up in the cloth.

"Your father?" Dearka asks, pulling forth a towel of his own.

Yzak flicks a lock of wet hair out of his face and opens the shower-stall door. "My father," he replies, turning to speak over his shoulder as he leaves for the bathroom proper, his face unexpectedly calm. "It's okay; I can handle it. Wanna get some breakfast?"

xxxxx


	18. This Familiar Unfamiliarity

**Aurora Borealis**

**This Familiar Unfamiliarity**

Twenty solid hours of sleep later, Athrun is finally back to normal. Having spent what feels like ages waiting on him in tense and bored monotony broken only by Miriallia's exceedingly brief visit to leave a tray of food, Kira is extremely grateful for this. Sweet distraction that watching and touching Athrun's face is, he likes it much better when the other is awake to appreciate and reciprocate.

"Hello," he mumbles now and moves to nimbly straddle the newly-woken blunette. "Sleepyhead." Athrun doesn't have a chance to reply vocally before Kira's mouth is pressed hotly against his. The (former?) Strike pilot lies rather heavily over the ZAFT solider, fingers occupied threading through blue hair and mapping the other's features and throat, and Athrun's hands rise to fit themselves around his shoulders; unfortunately mostly to hold him still.

Smiling apologetically after lifting his face for a last brief peck, the blunette asks, "The situation…?"

Seeing the sense in said line of thought even as he blushes a little, Kira reluctantly backs off and the other follows until the brunette's sitting in his lap, facing him with his arms around his neck. "Mostly the same as when you fell asleep. Miriallia came by but couldn't stay long."

"_Kira? I have some food for you. Look, I'm sorry, there's no time. See you later, all right?"_

Her hesitant and skittish demeanor left him wondering what she thought about the With Us or Against Us issue; she's always been kind and sensible, but Tolle's all but dying and Kira has enough self-distance to admit that if that had happened to Athrun he probably wouldn't have cared to be rational. "I doubt anything's occurred, and any speculation about decisions they might have made would be pure hypothesis. Assumably some of them will turn up during the day. We do have some foodstuffs, if you're hungry."

"I see now why the breakfast on our ship impressed you," Athrun remarks after a bite of what seems to be very old bread. "Now, about the controls…"

Green gaze focused on their owner's musings, the blunette slips off the bed, pads over to the panel located beside the door and starts tapping the small buttons. Kira never had reason to pay the systems much attention; he lacks Athrun's interest in mechanical things, and he had no incentive to hack anything. Aside from distracting himself by switching passwords and the like he rarely touched anything outside of Strike. Nudging the not-so-appetizing remnants on the tray aside, he reclines on the bed for just a few moments, watching his lover at work. It isn't long until Torii swoops down to perch on the blunette's shoulder, earning itself a grin and an absent pat. Sick and tired of lazing aimlessly, Kira follows the toy to Athrun, wrapping his arms snugly around the other's torso and nuzzling his back.

The blunette laughs and turns from the key pad to return the embrace. "Miss me much while I was out?"

Increasingly restless and claustrophobic, Kira barely nods before pushing Athrun backwards into the wall, muffling any sounds the impact might have prompted by fastening his mouth over his lover's. He _wants_ so much that it's embarrassing, not sex so much as closeness. Fortunately Athrun understands and reciprocates – leaving the pathetically simple door-mechanism to its lonesomeness they return to the previously abandoned bed, sit there for what feels like a pleasant eternity simple tracing each other's features, which should still be obscured by a touch of baby-fat but aren't, smiling, being together.

That's how they still are when the device Athrun examined earlier gives a low little beep, following which the door swishes open to admit Miriallia and Mu La Flaga.

"Hey," the girl says uncertainly. "Kira. A… Athrun-san."

"Miriallia-san," the blunette replies in a civil, even likeable, tone. Kira isn't sure how to act towards them and so refrains. "Lieutenant La Flaga."

The blond natural nods in return with a strained smile and a, "boys," before easing his weight off the crutches and slumping down on the untouched bed opposite the one Kira and Athrun are occupying. Miriallia remains standing, curious blue eyes regarding the Coordinator couple. Another likewise colored gaze flicks to the still-swollen redness marking one half of the ZAFT soldier's face, a stark contrast to the thin pallor of the other cheek. "Hitting you was out of line," La Flaga eventually says.

Athrun shrugs lightly. "So was my hysterical self-pity."

Judging by his calm and the touch of apology in his tone, it sounds almost as though that is the blunette's sincere opinion on the subject rather than just a politely appeasing remark. Which is ridiculous, and has Kira leaning half-consciously closer to him; quite a feat, that, given that they were already no more than inches apart.

"Tolle's better," Miriallia says out of the blue and into a silence that suddenly goes from tense to relived. "I'd like to direct my gratitude to you, Athrun-san; I can understand how you came to hurt him, and following that you took a risk to save him. Thank you." She gives a slight, measured bow, which Athrun mirrors with less awkwardness than his sitting should allow for.

"Please," he insists politely. "I didn't do it for you." That's so Athrun; nice and respectful to the last, yet refusing to accept undeserved credit. Which is not actually, in this case, undeserved. The probably-subconscious brush of the blunette's fingers against Kira's hand reaffirm quite firmly for whom he did what he did.

"With that matter temporarily concluded," the lieutenant says, "it would be profitable to discuss the exact terms of our agreement. Captain Ramius is currently occupied tending to the wounded but has approved of our reasoning through the matter."

"If you feel that that's necessary," Kira says. It might clear the air, too, however saddening and aggravating it is to be forced to negotiate with people he used to consider his friends. The thought startles him, washes blinding shock over his mind – _people I _used to_ consider my friends?_ _What the hell am I thinking?_

Still, he has made the choices he has made, and they have made the choices they have made. Though closer to that than to enemies, they are not _friends_ anymore. Maybe they never were.

"So then," La Flaga continues, "given your standing in ZAFT, I must assume that you are quite an accomplished solider, Zala-kun. Would it be possible for you to contact your forces from here?"

Athrun gives a very light shrug. "It should be manageable, but it would take quite a lot of configuration and remodeling of the systems, given the distance and the disturbance from the Debris Belt."

"You will not do that," La Flaga says.

"So long as you don't contact the EA – fair enough."

"If we were able to we would have already done that," the blond replies. "However, I take it you would be able to? Then why not arrange a mutually profitable trade – you can return to ZAFT, we to the EA. I should think that that's a nicely equivalent exchange."

It is, actually, depressing as it may be that the only thing they can agree on is that they want away from each other, back to opposite sides in what seems like a never-ending war; except that obviously it isn't, given what Athrun disclosed yesterday. And if PLANT has been holding back until now, while pretty much kicking the living crap out of the in money and men so blatantly superior EA, then what are they truly capable off? Is there any limit? In either case Kira files the subject away to investigate in private later, when this draining conversation is over.

"A nice plan," the blunette agrees, "save for the little detail that my father won't permit losing the legged ship and the last G-unit for no grander gain than I."

"I see," La Flaga says, keeping a searching gaze fixed on Athrun's cold-calm face. "He wouldn't give us up for just one young elite. Well, I'm touched to be ranked even with his son."

"Stop it," Kira demands. Athrun does not need to hear this kind of thing.

"My father wants revenge," the blunette says, even and composed. "This ship and its Gundam are more likely to grant it to him than I am. My mother's dead, you know."

"In other words," La Flaga states at length, "we might all be here for a long time. Given that, I suppose you are both willing to help maintain the ship?"

"Certainly," Kira says, and Athrun nods agreement. "So long as we're living here too it's only fair."

"Good. Strike still carries heavy damage from the last fight and we lack the ability to fix most of it. It would be a considerable help to get it working, considering that our resources need to be restocked every now and then, and what our only source of them is."

_Oh_, Kira realizes. _Junius Seven. Of course it's still Junius Seven. And of course he's waiting for me to assure that he's safe before disclosing that to Athrun. _He can't blame the blonde and wonders when he got so cynical, then wraps his arms rather tightly around his lover. Probably it won't be needed, hopefully it won't be, as he currently still lacks the ability to physically restrain Athrun if worst comes to worst. It's not as though he minds the clinging, anyway. Raising a startled eyebrow, the blunette easily plays along and returns the embrace.

"When we got stranded here the last time," Kira says, looking into green eyes, "we didn't have much in the way of food and water, and when we looked around in the Debris Belt we found Junius Seven."

Hands tightening just a little around Kira's arms, Athrun's face remains ghostly expressionless.

Remembering both his own outrage at the original proposal of the grave-robbing and the hateful, despaired look in Athrun's eyes at the occasional mention of his murdered mother, Kira presses one hand gently to the blunette's neck; his lover lets Kira tuck said lover's head on his shoulder without resistance, a deep sigh working its way through him.

Surprisingly, the one brave or stupid enough to break the new silence is Miriallia, "It wasn't a nice thing to do. But we would have died otherwise."

A grim, shaky smile on his mouth, Athrun replies, "Well, the inhabitants certainly don't need their belongings anymore."

"No," Kira agrees, pressing a kiss to the blunette's hair before minutely redirecting his attention to the naturals. "Would you leave us alone?"

Nodding, La Flaga and Miriallia file out, leaving the brunette on the bed to mentally fret over the other boy whose back he strokes. They remain like that for a long time.

Afterwards, settling in on the Archangel is a surprisingly easy process. He and Athrun keep the room they were first assigned though soon locked only on the inside; they repair and upgrade Strike in the tense anticipation of taking it out to help restock (read: Athrun delights himself tinkering with the pleasantly advanced systems while Kira watches him in indulgence and occasionally lends a hand).

The relationships with the naturals are mostly polite and distant, neither friend nor foe. The recovering Tolle obviously still considers Kira his pal, which warms the brunette Coordinator almost as much as his old schoolmate's regained health does though Tolle still doesn't understand much of anything and is exceedingly skittish around Athrun. Pity, that, but understandable in spite of how careful the blunette has been ever since the original incident to behave calmly and kindly. In the end it means that however friendly their views of each other might be, Tolle and Kira spend very little time together because Tolle doesn't want to be around Athrun and Kira almost always is. He _likes_ to spend time with Tolle, but he _needs_ to be with Athrun. The brunette natural doesn't understands; but he accepts; but he doesn't like.

Fllay stays carefully out of their way, and what little Kira hears about her in the others' conversations imply that she spends the majority of her time locked up in her room, which Sai still visits rather frequently but which Miriallia has given up on. Kira wouldn't mind her being around, but seeing him or Athrun would probably not exactly cheer her up, and he's certainly not about to make the effort of seeking her out when for one she doesn't want to see him and two she said what she did to Athrun.

Sai is colder than he used to be, by far; rather much like he acted back in Heliopolis, before certain events on the Archangel brought him and Kira temporarily closer. However, he isn't as passive aggressive as he started out, and in his own way rather reluctantly intrigued by how the likewise mechanically inclined Athrun handles all kinds of technical equipment. The natural is a diligent, dedicated worker, Kira remembers from their shared time in school, who took the effort to manage several of the programs that Kira alone mastered without problems. Most of it, which he now realizes was used in the G-series, went far above Sai's head, but the natural is gifted and if he'd been a Coordinator or an inhabitant in a world that didn't have any Coordinators he'd have been a genius. He rarely if ever asked Kira, his underclassman at the time, for help, but Athrun's graduation and current employment seem to allow concerns such as not asking younger students for explanations or instructions to be thrown out the window.

The blunette, who is a Coordinator and the best of the best, once said, _didn't you tell me he was your upperclassman in Orb? What kind of simplified classes did you take? Nicol used to get nagged about being slow at programming and yet he does stuff ten times as advanced ten times as fast_, but is never rude to Sai himself and allows him to occasionally hang over his shoulder with no worse repercussions than an annoyed glance every once in a while. The envious admiration gained by his admitting to having made Torii even teased an amused smile over his mouth.

Miriallia never was all that close to Kira, and she's really neither more nor less distant than she used to be. She's kind and sensible as always, but also sensible enough to keep a hint of a barrier up – Kira wouldn't chose her and she wouldn't chose him and they both now and accept that. Tolle, energetic as always and fighting tooth and nail to be allowed out of his sickbed, takes up quite a lot of her time, but every now and then she stops by to visit the Coordinators. At these occasions she usually gives them these knowing little looks, and Kira is faintly surprised that gossip isn't all over the ship already, because there isn't much to do here and it's a _very_ nice way to kill time, so let's be frank, he and Athrun do have a lot of sex, and even despite the miracle that nobody's caught them in the act yet they aren't precisely inconspicuous.

Chief Mechanic Murdoch does not care about people's genes, but he does care about Athrun killing some of his associates and so is rather unfriendly at first. After a while, when curiosity apparently gets the better of him, he approaches and they get along fairly well – until Murdoch admits to not knowing a certain thing and Athrun mistakes the utterance for a joke and laughs heartily at the idea that someone calling himself a mechanic could not be fully familiar with the subject of their discussion. Even Kira's most dedicated efforts haven't been enough to remedy that particular fiasco.

Captain Ramius too is accepting and probably aware, through the never-lifting haze of worried weariness on her features. In the long run it is, of course, an impossible situation, and as far as Kira knows nobody has any real idea of how to get out of it. Athrun probably has some conjectures, and Kira can't claim innocence when it comes to contemplating flight either, but he's still not completely rid off the nasty potion Le Klueze fed him and until further notice nothing of the kind is spoken of. In a way it's a relief to simply recline here, without responsibilities and so far from the war that it can be ignored. Athrun's here, after all, and mostly everywhere is fine so long as that condition holds true, and there's no fighting – Kira isn't complaining.

Mu La Flaga isn't the ready mentor figure that he used to be, perhaps mostly because the role wouldn't fit anymore. He's still nice and there and easy-going in just the right way, and despite their bad start he and Athrun seem to be warming up to each other, the natural officer discovering a hurt young boy and the Coordinator elite finding a warm and capable man below their respective layers of enemy solider.

The rest of the crew is sensible, forming practical if not emotional bonds over repairing computer systems and the like. The passengers, the poor people Kira picked up long ago who're still here and might never leave, are even now keep away from the EA officials to a large degree, but a few homesick children have delightedly nagged for the mechanical toys a bored Athrun makes. Some of them were apparently told to return them when their parents found out where they'd gotten them, but the blunette merely shrugs and takes them apart to built new ones, and the dense atmosphere on the stranded ship is lessened by a choir of different chirps and squeaks and mewlings.

It's not _good_, it isn't, but it's far less _bad_ than anything's been since long before the war came to Heliopolis.

xxxxx


	19. Baiser

**Aurora Borealis**

**Baiser**

How the hell did they end up like this?

Yzak has no idea. Not the slightest inkling, actually, and he's pretty damn sure Dearka doesn't either – he's also unnervingly certain that right now he doesn't care about the _why_ or even _how_, just that it is.

_That_ he cares about a tad bit more than is strictly advisable, truth be told.

So yeah, he is pathetically clueless as to how he got himself into this situation, but currently he's poised above Dearka, straddling his hips. The blonde is on his back, once again on Yzak's bed in their room in darkness. They are both quite nude. Sweat glistens on Dearka's skin below him, its earthly hue making his own figure all but otherworldly in its pallor despite the hot blood coursing through it.

He leans forward a little; the movement is small but sufficient to have Dearka curse-beg-sob, and Yzak's reflecting that not all stickiness is due to sweat, and can't wait, doesn't want to wait, grabs what he desires and sinks down on it.

He doesn't know the reason for that either, but he's never needed anything so badly as he needs Dearka inside him now.

He gasps through the pain, not because of it, for pain he can control; he's gasping helplessly for the pleasure underneath and within.

Dearka was possibly the first person in Yzak's world. Not the first human, not even nearly that, but his mother was simply his mother, his nanny his nanny, rather than individuals of their own. There were Adults, Children, Servants, and some of them occasionally switched roles and gained names, but Dearka alone demanded the space and attention of a _person_, carried too many importances to be sorted as anything other than simply Dearka.

After all the incidents lately, perhaps he shouldn't be surprised that they're going all the way now, without even a clear idea of what destination they hope for. Just a few days ago there was that occurrence in the shower, frantic heart pounding flaming blood through him, and the awkwardness afterwards was lesser than that which had proceeded what they did on his bed an additional couple of days before. In other words, nerves were henceforth insufficient to prevent their touching, snuggling, snogging, like they did during the holiday, in the car and the park and on the floor in Dearka's room.

As late as yesterday evening Yzak didn't think, couldn't allow himself to think because then he would forbid himself but still be unable to help it – didn't think at all, just walked up to his roommate, wrapped his arms around him from behind, rested his face between the blond's shoulder-blades, basked in the scent and sensation and warmth.

Only hours previously Dearka had tripped him, they'd wrestled, though not at all like they'd used to, not at all like they were supposed to. The straddling and holding and pressing remained the same, the heavy pants and hard pulses, but instead of kicks there were kisses, wet and sloppy, instead of punches there were gropings, caressing, and Yzak will definitely kill the idiot who interrupted by rapping on the door and calling that they were to attend some sort of briefing.

The meeting wasn't very important, and since Nicol was the only one who actually did arrive on time Yzak doesn't feel too bad about skipping the first part – what does irk him, and quite a lot, is the fact that even with ten minutes or so to try and get himself presentable he looked fresh out of bed; a button missing from his uniform, a few strands of hair still mussed, flushed, swollen lips, a hickey not completely obscured by his collar.

To make matters worse, Dearka was proper enough that Yzak probably seemed a tad sloppy in comparison, but not sufficiently to erase the very likely forming suspicions of what they might have been doing to be late and in this absurd condition.

And then, fuck knows how or why, their silly argument ended in fists ending in both of them falling into his bed, became rough, frantic kisses, hot hands without finesse but with much ardor, ripped clothes, naked, Yzak moving up and down, Dearka matching, or perhaps it's the other way around, in either case it's movement with a life of its own, compelling higher and faster and harder and _more_, and then there is more, oh how much more, and when he comes fully to again he's sprawled over the blonde, stuck together by the same sweat that sticks his bangs to his face, ragged breathings matched. It should be too hot but it isn't, the very idea of moving away chases freezing shudders down his spine even as he sleepily realizes that Dearka's mumbling something. "Mmh," he replies, not caring what he says, then inches sideways so he can bury his face in the pillow.

Dearka doesn't leave this time.

Soon enough, no far too soon, it's morning and Yzak's waking up with the soreness of someone who's slept in a very uncomfortable position. If he ever has sex with and subsequently shares a bed with someone again, then they're using one bed for the shagging and another for the actual sleeping, to avoid smelly, tangled sheets and lying all over each other, which is killing his neck. Cursing rather incoherently he pushes himself into a sitting position, turns to stare intently at the still-asleep Dearka.

He did not like it when the other left; he doesn't like being all cramped because he stayed. He didn't want to tell him about his father; he didn't want to obscure it anymore. He never wanted to want him but he reflects now, _I slept with him. As in had sex with. Fucked. Or got fucked by, whatever. Had him inside me,_ and realizes that he still wants him, and quite badly at that.

It is often said, both in so-called fine literature and in the soap opera-type books that Yzak would never admit to even glancing at, that everyone's cute when asleep. This is not true. Yzak knows that most people are not even remotely sweet with drool in the corner of their half-open mouths, unstyled and chubby-looking. The brighter authors therefore state that it's just your loved ones that are adorable in their sleep.

Dearka's kinda ugly.

Short blond hair muffed, handsome face relaxed, soft lips parted around what Yzak knows to be a fairly pleasant morning breath, lean torso covered in smooth dark skin marked by Yzak's pinching.

So he's kinda ugly but hot too, in spite of or perhaps because of it, and that way in which he has one hand curled below his cheek is for some obscure reason breathtaking. Of courseYzak is not in love with Dearka, but if he has to watch sleeping people then the Buster pilot is definitely one of the more pleasant alternatives. That's the sole reason as to why he's bending now, pressing a light kiss to the blond's mouth, then sitting up straight again before Dearka's woken up sufficiently to be aware of what just happened. Years of sleepovers have taught him in no uncertain terms that his comrade simply does not notice anything happening around him until his eyes have been open for about ten minutes.

Today, a day of many firsts apparently, they are misty for only five seconds or so before they open wide in shock, shifting wildly between their owner's naked figure, the messy bed, Yzak's equally nude person, back and forth and panicked.

"I'm not gay," Dearka squeaks.

Yzak merely stares at him for a moment or two, eyebrows somewhat raised, gaze surprised but level. Then laughter takes him, Fall-to-the-Floor-and-Clutch-your-Stomach-and-Fight-for-Breath-type laughter; he bends over, shaking with the hysteria of it.

It departs as abruptly as it came, leaving Yzak staring quietly at his companion for a handful more seconds before he smashes his fist into Dearka's face as hard as he can manage, rage and hurt and incredulity warring within him. He isn't sure why he's doing it.

The force of the blow knocks Dearka down, has him falling halfway off the bed. Coldly, calmly, Yzak gets up after him, ignores the blond's protests and instead takes a firm hold around his shoulders and pushes him forcefully out of the room, locks the door behind him. "Do I _look_ like a girl to you?" he screams, not listening to whatever response might be contained somewhere in Dearka's yelling from outside.

It is as though he's watching someone else pick up a few articles of clothing from the floor, struggle into them, kick the bed viciously in passing. Only when Dearka starts pounding on the door in earnest is he returned to himself, standing stupidly in the middle of the room with half a uniform on.

"Yzak!" Dearka cries. "Open! Yzak, for fuck's sake, I don't have any clothes here! Open! Dammit, there are people coming! Yzak!"

"Yeah," Yzak mumbles quietly to himself. "For fuck's sake." Snatching the rest of his attire from the wardrobe he opens the door, watches Dearka practically fall inside with none of the amusement that would normally accompany the undignified sight. He isn't ignoring the blonde anymore, can't, is transfixed by him, but he hopes to hell that he makes a good show of it as he storms off, not fully dressed but decent and not caring either way. He slams the door button hard enough to break it, so instead of closing properly it makes a few beeps and stops halfway. Fuck that. Fuck everything, come to think of it.

Not encountering more than two or three politely not-staring soldiers in the blessedly deserted corridors he makes his way to the public showers, stomps inside and punches in a lock-code that he really isn't supposed to know about, then rips his clothing off and throws himself into the closest shower stall. Water pounds down on him, as hot as it can get and at full blast, so that it feels like burning bruises. Fine; he needs to clean up, needs to make sure nobody can see or hear him, and he has a lifetime's experience of pain.

Warm wetness washes down his face, and he cries, hard as he hasn't in years, the kind of tears that you choke on, that have you trembling and cold-hot and make your eyes puffy and sore without actually relieving any of the hurt. That's because it's the kind of crying that only happens when that hurt is too great to be remedied or even lessened by tears.

First time he cried like this he was four. An hour or so after he had stopped, when exhaustion had emptied him of everything, his hysterical mother brought him to the hospital, where he spent the night and learned that water tastes much better at home. Next day his father left their house.

Last time he cried like this he was fourteen. That was the one and only time his father returned to the Juhle mansion, the single occasion on which the man braved his former lover's demand for distance, her influence and security guards.

Normally, at least Yzak's prepared that it's going to hurt and so can contain himself. But that particular beating was just too unexpected, too violent, too little time to force himself to forget who hit him. A trip to the hospital later he could walk again, albeit with crutches, and the swelling in his face had gone down sufficiently to allow him to open one eye, and bandage and painkillers made his broken ribs bearable.

That was years ago, and when he told Dearka he can handle things he wasn't lying – so why is he crying now, sobbing his wretched soul out? He does not cry for his father, not before, not now and not in the future. This is a new kind of pain, unlike mostly anything caused by certain incidents within the family; rather more akin to, actually, the childhood stings of his mother declining to spend time with him in favor of working.

"_I'm not gay,"_ Dearka said – yeah, right, then what the fuck were they doing? Not like he complained at the time, and not like he can have avoided noticing that pretty or not Yzak is definitely not a girl.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, focusing on forming the words, nevermind that the sound of water obscures them, he speaks articulately and clearly, only the syllables are important, not what they mean, certainly not the cause for his repeating them over and over. "Damn fuckwit." Is he talking about himself or about Dearka? "And now everything's fucked up for the sake of a stupid fuck."

Why did he go and sleep with him?

Yes, he wanted to, desperately even, and yes, it was an… extraordinary experience, but one can't get everything one wishes, and when one does there's always a price.

Forget _love_, forget intimacy and attraction; save his mother none can compare to Dearka in importance – stupid jerk fucker that he is, the blonde has forever been Yzak's only friend, roommate, sparring partner, comrade, punch-bag, opponent, confidante, _everything._

All of that, over a decade's, more than half his life's emotional investment, all of it in ruins now for one dumb mistake. It's a high price for a single night of meaningless passion. That was expensive beyond belief, that idiotic act that he regrets so bitterly now. No, he doesn't regret it at all, and that's what he regrets the most.

Throwing a frustrated punch at the wall, from which luck alone prevents his crushing his knuckles, he doesn't fight the dejected sensation that drains him, makes him stumble, has him curled up in the corner in a most utterly pathetic fashion, tears run dry but still sobbing like the lonely child he does _not_ feel like. At all.

He doesn't want to ever leave the shower room, but duty's calling is reinforced by how the water has gone cold; slowly, with effort, he rises, steadying himself against the wall. Suddenly, and for no good reason that he cares to think about, he feels old, as though his body has grown stiff and creaky. Ludicrous, of course – he's a Coordinator elite and it'll take considerably much more than some cramped muscles to bring him down, but he supposes it's a valid psychosomatic reaction in its own way.

He's Yzak Juhle, and psychosomatic reactions do not happen to Yzak Juhle, though today it feels like they do.

While he can't muster the interest or energy to be grateful that his clothes didn't get soaked where he left them in an unsorted heap on the floor, he certainly isn't displeased by their mostly-dryness. Mechanically he puts them on, fastening each button with utmost care and gingerly straightening every piece of clothing. Even so a glance at the mirror reveals that he looks no better than he did when belatedly arriving at the briefing yesterday, though whereas then he carried signs of excitement he now bears marks of exhaustion. The sharp pallor of his skin, not rosy like before but rather ashen, makes the puffy redness of his eyes stand out, highlights how swollen his lips are and that there are lovebites on his neck. This last he manages to obscure by fiddling with his collar, but it has to be obvious to even the most dimwitted idiot that he's been either slapped or kissed quite hard, and that he's subsequently cried his eyes out.

The idea of meeting anyone or doing anything is unbearable, but so is staying in here, so he tells himself he won't scream or stomp or vomit, just act normal, all normal, and everything's normal, right, what has really changed anyway?

Yeah, all right, his life is in smoking ruins, but that's no one else's business and there's no reason for him to announce it. Like he can help it, or cares at this point.

Momentarily he hopes for fighting, to allow him an outlet and new emotions; then he realizes that battle will mean that he has to cooperate with Dearka.

Occupied telling himself sternly that he will not curse, will not stumble, will not flee back to the claustrophobic comfort of the shower room, he does not notice the Buster pilot until they are already upon each other.

Dearka looks good, he decides against his conscious will. A little haggard and definitely stressed out, but his darker skin obscures mostly all marks and he's perfect in the usual red uniform that ought really to clash horribly with his amethyst eyes and dusk skin but doesn't and the only-slightly-more-than-normally-mussed-up hair.

"Yzak," he says. It's a word he's spoken thousands of times before.

"Mmh," Yzak replies. "See that you have your stuff out of the room before dinner time."

"What? Yzak, are you…?" The blond's face is a study in upset, paralyzing shock.

"You're moving," Yzak informs calmly. Can't the idiot see? Did he really think things would simply carry on as before, after… after what they did and what he said. "Take an empty room, share with Nicol, I don't care. Just be gone."

"Yzak…" Dearka pleads, repeating his name for the…what? Third, already? …time. "People will talk, you do realize that?"

Smiling thinly, not stopping the hand that is already subconsciously going to a particularly large hickey just below his jaw, the Duel pilot replies, "I believe they already are." Careful to keep a certain distance, to not be tempted or hurt, he moves past the other, who grabs his arm rather forcefully. Face whipping around to stare hatefully at Dearka who _dares_ to touch him like this after having said what he's said, Yzak spits, "Go fuck yourself!" then rips free and flees.

xxxxx


	20. The Infamous Butter Scene

**Aurora Borealis**

**The Infamous Butter Scene**

Hoping to delay the point at which their tediousness becomes unbearable, Athrun has temporarily fled his miniscule technical projects, the little animals and the main systems and Strike. Thank all the gods that they at last let him at the mobile armor so he had something a least a little different and challenging to work with. It's done by now, unfortunately, and the Gundam will probably not get any better without more efficient and sophisticated materials available for the upgrading.

Having decided to leave what little there is left to do for sometime when he's _really_ bored (and boredom achieves an entirely new meaning when trapped on a ship that contains absolutely nothing to occupy oneself with) he went looking for Kira, but the brunette was talking to Miriallia-san and given that the two of them seemed comfortable with each other for the first time, Athrun decided it best that he not intrude and ruin the encounter. Not that it's good, logically, that his lover grows too attached to the naturals again, considering that the only sound course of action would be to rest and recuperate here until Kira is fully recovered, then take the Strike and leave for PLANT, but if it can give the brunette some well-deserved and much-overdue relief to reconnect to some degree, then that is a good thing.

Unfortunately it leaves Athrun aimlessly wandering the corridors; he's just made up his mind to return to their room and set about fixing the mechanical kitten one of the civilian girls (civilians on a ship like this? The idea is almost unbelievable, something only Kira could be behind) requested when he catches onto a conversation taking place beyond a not-entirely-closed door. He's about to move on when Tolle's voice tentatively rings out, "Lieutenant La Flaga? Um, can I ask you something? I mean, those PLANT people have some really strange customs, don't they?"

"How so?" the Hawk of Endymion inquires, and Athrun is too in love with the hope of being entertained to mind the rudeness of his eavesdropping.

"Well…" the brunette natural begins hesitantly. "They eat weird stuff in weird places."

"Could you be a little more specific?" La Flaga asks when Tolle doesn't spontaneously elaborate, thus posing a very valid question.

"You see, I was taking some food to them," Tolle explains. He did, Athrun remembers, a while back when the naturals still had not completely given up on the idea of him and Kira being prisoners. "Just the usual breakfast stuff, water and bread and one of those small tubes of butter. I was a little late, but anyway, I got there and knocked. Nobody answered, so I called out to them but they still didn't reply so I opened." While going along with the pretension that they were locked up, it had seemed rude to install anything that would keep the naturals out, tempting as that option had been.

"Nobody was in," Tolle continues, "but I heard that the shower was on so I supposed they were in the bathroom. I didn't want to go in there, so I called out again, and a few minutes later Athrun-san came out, wrapped in some bathrobe and all wet and flushed so I assumed he'd been showering." Athrun resists the impulse to smack his own forehead; what a brilliant leap of logic. Now, if Tolle thinks that little conjecture worthy of explanation, then that certainly provides a reason as though why everything else he ought to have understood isn't out yet.

"Yes?" La Flaga says.

"Yeah, anyway, Kira wasn't anywhere to be seen so I guess he was still in the bathroom. I sorta offered Blue Hair the tray, he just gave it this hasty glance over, then grabbed the butter tube, said thanks and disappeared again."

"Oh," says La Flaga.

"At this point I wasn't sure what to do," Tolle elaborates, "so I just kinda stood around for a while before setting the breakfast down on the bed. Funny things is, before I left I heard some… strange… sounds from the bathroom."

"_Oh_," says La Flaga.

Evidently not catching on to what the older man appears to have realized, Tolle continues, "So apparently Coordinators eat butter in their showers while making odd noises. I guess they really are a weird different sort after all. I mean, _butter_? In the _shower_?"

Much as he tries to keep it in or at the very least at a low decibel, Athrun's helpless fit of laughter is heard clearly over La Flaga's harkle and, "Err, well, that might –"

As the door glides fully open Athrun makes an effort to contain himself, which fails miserably as he catches sight of Tolle's still-unenlightened face. "My apologies," he manages. "I couldn't help overhearing."

"Um," the natural boy says. "Sorry? I didn't mean to be rude, it's just, you gotta admit it's freakish to eat butter in the bathroom! So, eh, why do you? Everyone do that on PLANT?"

"Not exactly," Athrun replies between peels of wild giggles, his finally attained self-control shattered by the disgusting/hilarious image of his Coordinator superiors sitting around in shower rooms eating plain butter. "It's an… acquired taste, I suppose."

"It is?" Tolle says, still confused. "A lot of people do that on PLANT?"

"Yes," Athrun can't rest claiming, straightening up and putting on an expression of grim seriousness. "There does not seem to by much use attempting to hide it anymore – ingesting the substance in question is a part of the process of becoming a Coordinator. Doing it in the shower is mere custom. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Stumbling, fighting down fits of hysterical laughter that is surely brought about by claustrophobic stress to a large degree, he makes his belated way to their room and collapses on the closest bed, laughing till he can't breathe.

When Kira at length turns up he's still sprawled and red in the face from his outburst. It doesn't exactly get easier to be calm when the first thing his lover says is, "I just passed Tolle in the kitchen, where he sat staring at a package of butter as though at the box of Pandora with a spoon in one hand, and when I asked him what he was doing he mumbled something about you disclosing information and becoming a Coordinator – what the heck did you tell him?"

He tries to answer, he really does, but it's impossible since he's once again laughing so hard he's crying, clutching his stomach and chipping for air. Considering that Kira does not seem amused by his antics, perhaps it's fortunate that there's a knock on the door before he can reply.

"Yes?" Kira calls, "It's open."

Enter Captain Ramius and Lieutenant La Flaga, both of whom flick Athrun glances under raised eyebrows as he struggles to behave. That is suddenly a whole lot easier when the brunette woman says, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's time we restock. Now that Strike is workable again we would all benefit considerably from its assistance, so I thought that one of you might pilot it."

"I'll do it," Athrun says. Someone has to, much as he has tried to avoid thinking about this particular subject, and if anyone does it should be him, both by duty and right. Plus he'd prefer to wait just a little longer before letting Kira out in a mobile suit; it'd probably be fine, and if it had been anybody else he wouldn't have worried, but better safe than sorry.

"No offense," La Flaga says, "but I'm sure you realize we're a little apprehensive about letting you out in the weapon your military has been after."

"Understandable," Athrun replies, cold now, far from the laughter. "However, do you honestly believe that I would leave Kira?"

"No," Ramius says mildly, smiling a little as color rises in her blond subordinate's cheeks. "Then Kira-kun will remain on the ship and help handle the dockings while Athrun-san takes the Gundam."

He barely remembers to nod, too immersed in what he will have to do, so soon.

"I'd prefer to actively help out," Kira protests, "by a considerable margin."

"You'll come in very handy at the controls," La Flaga argues with faux cheerfulness. "Even with the potion they gave you, you're still better than most naturals, and by now you're all but back to normal, right?"

"Am I a hostage?" Kira demands.

"Well," Ramius says, calm and kind and with that ever-present hint of unashamed melancholy. "Sort of, yes."

"This ship has something of a bad history with hostages, huh? Oh, don't look at me like that, I'll go do what you wanted. All right, Athrun?"

"Yes," he says mechanically. "Okay."

"They're cute, aren't they?" he hears the captain say as he climbs into the Gundam's cockpit.

"More like codependent," La Flaga replies with less humor and more concern that could perhaps have been expected.

Being inside the robot is so comfortably familiar that it disturbs him when at length it occurs to him that it is not quite healthy to feel even a bit at home inside a weapon of war. The sight of space is one to which he does not have an uncomplicated relationship – it's beautiful, and cold, and usually he sees it like this when fighting and killing and watching people die. Now he just needs to hover over the manned, bright yellow pods transporting materials to the Archangel and occasionally lend a hand. Mostly that simply consists of giving the smaller vehicles a push along and stop certain structures from collapsing over them; he knows he should feel more, both additional emotions and stronger, but he doesn't.

Suddenly, when they are almost done, Mu La Flaga's face appears on one of the little screens. "Problem," he says very hurriedly and more serious than Athrun has yet seen him. There's no need to elaborate, and apparently the natural understands as much – whipping around, cursing his narrow focus on Junius Seven, Athrun catches sight of a small amount of military vehicles on the far side of the Archangel, not close but not far from it either.

A ship clumsy both from design and damage, surrounded by a fair number of mobile armors – the Earth Alliance.

A handful mobile suits sporting sabers and guns – the Zodiac Alliance for Freedom Treaty forces.

It's fairly even, but ZAFT will win – if nothing else because that is still where Athrun belongs and he's here and much as he appreciates the relative acceptance on the Archangel, thank god that they are finally saved.

"Zala," La Flaga says then, and the little screen doesn't only picture the blond anymore, no Kira's there too, with several naturals holding him and a gun pressed against his head. "You know what to do."

His mother's nuked grave below him and a fairly meaningless battle in front of him, the world freezes and shatters and comes crashing down around him. Indeed; he knows exactly what to do. Tempting are the options to either turn on the Archangel itself or contact the ZAFT vehicles, but the risk to Kira's life is too high. Nauseated or not he'd freely slay anyone to save a certain brunette, and considering how desperate the natural crew seems to be there's no choice.

He will have to attack ZAFT, and that means he will have to destroy every last one of their units to avoid any rumors of this reaching PLANT.

It's easy, too. His arrival is unexpected, and both he and Strike are vastly superior to the other pilots and vehicles. Of course it also helps that Athrun has been part of ZAFT long enough to know their techniques by heart.

For his mother and his right to exist he has fought and killed before. Now he cannot allow himself to harm any of those responsible for her murder and the threat to his and his kinds' lives. Most of the EA forces are down but the damaged ship is presently anchoring to the Archangel, and Athrun crushes the ZAFT suits opposing this, not because the barrel pushing into Kira's cheek constitutes a deeper impression than the rest of the war but because he can't fight for what has been lost when he _can_ fight for there's still hope for, what still has and gives life.

He reenters the Archangel not five minutes later, climbs out of the cockpit and drops down, almost stumbles because his legs are suddenly shaky. Apprehensive people close in on him, both mechanics from the Archangel and two EA soldiers he reckons arrived with the smaller vehicle he so recently and reluctantly defended; the thought has him swallowing dryly, gulping back the retches crowding the back of his mouth. Fisting his hands would be too obvious a sign of frustrated weakness, so with effort he keeps them relaxed, asserting through a glance that their trembling and perspiration are known only to him.

The people evidently sent to escort him to whatever big-shots might have come with the smaller ship are wary of touching him but close in so tightly that they might as well have been holding onto him; he can smell them, drying sweat and dirt, feel their body heat wash over him. They're afraid of him, the Coordinator who saved them, and certainly he'd lash out at them if he dared. Unfortunately he's afraid too, both at the likely prospect that Kira' still under threat and – no, don't think about that now, can't afford to be distracted, get sick later.

When they reach the bridge Captain Ramius is sitting in her chair, a man of middle age and middle height standing in front of her, facing the doorway Athrun and his guards enter through. La Flaga, no longer restraining in any obvious manner but still hovering over Kira, has his back against the wall, one of many in the rows of Archangel personnel. The vast majority of the space is commandeered by the new arrivals, which assumably are of fairly high rank considering this development. The soldiers aren't many, Athrun defeated more people when he first disembarked, but these ones have their guns out and ready and Kira is still too close to the Hawk's of Endymion pistol for the blunette not to at least try the peaceful approach.

"Well," the leader says at long length when his underlings have marched Athrun towards him and then stopped a meter or so away and the Archangel mechanics have backed away. "This is the Coordinator? I heard these ridiculous stories about a teenage monster piloting our Gundam on Artemis, but… Nevermind. You are this… Kira Yamato?"

"Yes, I am," Athrun replies tonelessly. They know there's one Coordinator and they need one Coordinator – two means one to kill and one to use, and the manipulated state of his own genes is already known. The stranger EA commander's choice of words has also made it very clear where his sympathies lie, and since they do care for Kira Athrun's rather certain the Archangel crew will allow him the lie.

The man nods to one of the minions lining the Aegis pilot, and Athrun isn't surprised when the underling buries his fist in his stomach. He topples over without resistance; let them play at intimidating him as they like, the faster he pretends to crumble the faster they will probably stop, let them have their fun and underestimate him enough to grant him the opportunity to grab Kira and get them both the hell away from here.

The hit isn't especially hard, the one who dealt it is easily three times his own weight but ludicrously weaker, but he acts as though nursing the soreness, keeping his body slumped and his head down as the commander draws his gun and lazily rests the barrel against Athrun's forehead.

"Sir!" Ramius cries, the clearest sound in the sea of rustles, hissing and uncomfortable, murmured protests.

"What, Captain?" the commander asks in irritation. "We're at war here, normal humans against monstrosities like this one. You can't have missed that part of the education, can you – about taking care of the freaks whenever one has the opportunity?"

Athrun doesn't react; pompous and hateful or not, the man can't be dumber than to realize that he needs a Coordinator to move the Strike and get them out of here, not even the EA can possibly have promoted anyone too stupid to grasp that. He won't shoot.

Next second the sound of a gun being fired echoes through the room.

xxxxx


	21. I'm So Fucked

**Aurora Borealis**

**I'm So Fucked**

_This isn't happening_, is his first thought as Yzak all but runs away. _Please. It can't be._

"_I don't care,"_ Yzak said. _"Go fuck yourself."_

Dearka tried everything, from a denunciation of his sexuality to the implied threat of gossiping, to no avail whatsoever. Stricken and hurt he grabs onto the wall for support, like the prissy little sissy he still feels like when referring to himself as… _that…_ even in his thoughts. He sorta has to be gay, though, for _desire_ and _love_ and _perfect_ has nothing at all to do with magazines and weddings but everything to do with Yzak smiling and in his arms.

However, he's also known the Duel pilot for a great many years and is thus very well aware that you don't start the dreaded Morning After with anything along the lines of, "Hey, Yzak, I'm in love with you."

Especially not when you're shocked and scared yourself, at the realization of overwhelming emotions that you never wanted to have. And while perfect is nice, he clearly remembers both how acutely awkward everything got after certain other things they did and how extremely clumsy and cautious Yzak can be about feelings – there's no use trying for romantic or serious when the threat of losing his friend is breathing so heavily down his neck. Hence he needed to turn it into a joke, into something that just happened, something that didn't mean anything, and he had to do it quickly, before the coldly searching blue gaze turned distant or disgusted.

Ridiculous idea, of course – how could sleeping with Yzak _not_ mean the world? And how can that leave him not-gay?

Whether the other believed him or not, the explanation evidently didn't satisfy. And now Yzak's gone, after appearing just long enough to establish how incredibly _hurt_ he was – white-faced and strained, blazing and vulnerable and so guilt-inducing that it's tearing Dearka apart on the inside.

Quietly he makes his way to their room in order to gather his belongings. They're spread out everywhere as usual, and he lacks the energy or incentive to pick most of them up. He throws some clothes onto his bed, along with a book and the most essential of his toiletries, leaving the rest for Yzak to do with as he pleases. Right now Dearka doesn't care for them, and the situation is too surreal to be truly processed. Hell, they've been roommates since they were _kids_, since _always_. It can't… can't just end like this.

_Okay_, he tells himself sternly (which is kinda ludicrous since he's allowed himself to collapse on Yzak's bed and bury his face in the familiar-smelling pillows) _I'm not a little girl, I don't cry, I've no reason to, I did not recently destroy my life through losing Yzak because I'm pretty sure I love him, which I don't, that's just too soap opera._

All right, so he's gonna fix it. Feeling better now that his mind is made up, he sits up comfortably and waits for the Duel pilot to return. It seems like it takes forever but eventually he does, and stops in the doorway, stares at Dearka with eyes that are still much too large and dark in the death-pale face.

"Yzak… Look, shit, I'm sorry."

He doesn't understand why, but that reply appears to cause even more damage than his panicked denial this morning, as the other's face freezes, then slowly cracks, mouth open, lower lip bit into so hard it bleeds, and Dearka's on his way up and towards him before he knows it.

"I hate you," Yzak says very slowly and deliberately and Dearka thinks he's going to cry. The Buster pilot stumbles, stops.

_This is not happening._

But it is and he goes to grab the stuff he left on his own bed previously, gives Yzak time to move away so that Dearka can slink through the doorway; he wants to look back but can't, for he's fucking leaving and – and –

_This isn't fucking happening. Please._ _I won't let it be. But… No. No, no, no, no, no._

He throws himself on an unknown and thus uncomfortable bed.

Isn't there any way back?

xxxxx

_This isn't happening_, is his first thought as La Flaga's hands close around his shoulders none too lightly. _Please. It can't be._ But he's seen the signs, of course – first the beeps and flashes from the machinery, then a few button-pressings later the actual images, more strangers fighting and dying not all that far from them. And that is just the immediate prompting, the catalyst.

The real clues, those that should act as warnings now, are Fllay's screamed and not-contradicted accusations, La Flaga's fist in Athrun's face, Captain Ramius' kindly worded ultimatum of Us or Them. With all these occurrences taken into consideration, he shouldn't be surprised that the lieutenant's hands are on him now, heavy and commanding, but he still doesn't want to believe it.

Then those hands force him to stand and denial would take more energy that it's worth. After all, they've even gone so far as to admit that he might have to act as a hostage, that they're ready to use him as such.

And now, he realizes, that's just exactly what they're doing.

For what precise purpose he is not yet certain; considering that they feel it necessary to lay physical hand on him he probably doesn't want to know.

Now La Flaga leaves him momentarily alone, concentrating on a screen and a keyboard – more specifically, the devices used for communication with Strike. _So what is he up to? Telling Athrun to come back? Not to attack the EA?_

No, not only that, there must be more or Mu La Flaga wouldn't deem it necessary to nod to his men, to thereby apparently order them to grab hold of Kira. Hampered by shock and denial and not wanting to hurt anyone, both because he still cares and because violence is rarely a good thing when it comes to maintaining a non-aggression pact, he doesn't hinder one of the petty officers from locking his arms behind him.

"Sorry, kid," La Flaga mumbles, and there aren't just several people clinging to him, weighing down and restraining, there's also the lieutenant's gun pushing into his check. His flesh is hot and soft in comparison to the oil-smelling metal biting into it.

Kira has nothing at all to reply, feels as sick and empty as most of the others look – the captain staring sadly into space, Sai studying his nails, La Flaga focusing on the little screen in front of him, adjusting the headset before speaking, "Zala. You know what to do."

Athrun doesn't respond, doesn't need to respond. His eyes go crystal, hard and brittle, and then he very calmly shuts the communication off.

Kira knows beyond any doubt that the barrel in his own face assures that the blunette will do anything and everything at all.

Being involved in the war is bad, terrible, horrific. Sacrificing certain ZAFT soldiers for their escape prior to the arrival on the Archangel was too. So was the prospect of being used to threaten Athrun into negotiating with his ideals and letting the EA go – then what is it to have him turn now on his own principles, people that might jolly well be his friends?

Kira happened upon, stumbled into the war because he didn't want to die, didn't want to watch others die, because of simple, immediate cares without connection to the reasons beyond the battles, but Athrun is in it because he _believes_ and they're taking that from him now.

"You sick cowards," he says in bitterness, for he doesn't want this on his conscience, no more than he wanted peoples' lives there, and at the same time there's the tiniest hint of happiness that Athrun will do even this for his sake. "Can't you even kill for yourselves?"

He can't imagine there would still be war if all those top-shots and quietly supportive civilians had to do the dirty work themselves. Whose hands is the blood truly on, the one obeying the order to kill or the one giving it? Which one is the killer? Both?

"We can't move around among the debris or we'd connect and sink," Sai says, still staring at his hands, voice raw, a pained and humiliated challenge. "You know that."

Which, of course, he does know. That piece of fact simply didn't seem important, not for someone whose highest priority is Athrun rather than the Archangel.

"Just try to take it easy," La Flaga tells him and Kira obediently slumps against his captors. Why waste his energy being on alert, and why not take advantage of the surprise he might gain from sudden action? Momentarily frivolous he wishes he were heavier so they'd have to struggle with his mere weight. Now his relaxation merely results in the man holding his arms loosening the grip a little; good enough, he supposes. He could break free. He'd have to fight, possibly break a couple of bones, but he could do it.

It's not even ten minutes later that the demolished main spacecraft from the EA docks to the Archangel, releasing its commander and his handful of soldiers into the larger ship.

Waving the other captors away to take their places against the wall, La Flaga slings a firm but not hurtful arm around Kira's shoulders, free hand kept close to his now-sheathed gun but not touching it. The strangers marching onto the bridge as though they owned it provide a safer constriction than any physical force they have henceforth employed against him.

Kira doesn't listen as intently as he should to what next occurs; he ought to pay full attention, to register all clues regarding the strangers' morals and weaknesses, but Athrun isn't here, he should be coming, what have they done to him, why can't I see him, I want to, please, nothing serious has happened to him, has it, how damn stupid am I he just killed his own and he did it for me and –

The new commander appears to be of the same self-righteous kind that the leaders of Artemis and, much like them, he unfortunately also has higher rank than their own Captain Ramius, who therefore sees herself forced to back down for him.

What abruptly snatches Kira's focus, robs it from panic-tinted speculation on Athrun and on how La Flaga persistently clings to him, is the annoyed, half-bellowed, "Haven't you got the Coordinator boy here _yet_? Hurry it up!"

Likely sensing his captive's once more suddenly increased tension, La Flaga tilts his head minutely, just enough to be able to murmur into Kira's ear, "Don't do anything stupid. Blue Hair can handle _himself_." A reminder and a warning, and truth as both – Athrun can indeed handle himself perfectly well, but he might be troubled if Kira too gets himself into danger needlessly. He dips his head a millimeter or two, knows the blond has correctly interpreted it as a nod when they both relax a little.

"Here he is, Commander," one of the new EA soldiers call then, and Kira has to apply considerable conscious effort to stay put and calm and not stare at Athrun being led onto the bridge. The blunette's features are perfectly neutral, carrying a non-expression that Kira has only occasionally glimpsed, to a lesser degree, before certain uncomfortable confrontations with people against whom he's helpless. Athrun once carried it while disappearing into the school's main office for a "talk" with his father and the principal regarding the normally peaceful blunette beating the crap out of some bullies who couldn't take a hint. That too, as a painful consistent irony, was mainly Kira's fault; Athrun wouldn't have gotten into trouble for his own sake.

It's like a movie how the strangers walk his lover towards the commander, all theatric and surreal. The two guards who continue to flank the blunette after the rest of the escort steps away lock his arms behind his back and stand around practically posing, one of them with his gun out.

"Well," the commander drawls with apparent distaste. "This is the Coordinator? I heard these ridiculous stories about a teenage monster piloting our Gundam on Artemis, but… Nevermind. You are this… Kira Yamato?"

Kira does not like his name in this man's mouth, which transforms it into something much dirtier than "monster".

"Yes," Athrun replies tonelessly, and remembering La Flaga's whisper is the only thing keeping Kira from revealing the bluff. "I am."

Smug smirk making alarms go off in Kira's head before the man actually nods, the commander proceeds to gesture for one of the guards to belt Athrun one in the stomach. The not-so-long-ago warning isn't enough anymore, it takes the lieutenant hardening his grip a little to prevent the brunette from charging forward as the ZAFT Coordinator falls forward, stumbling down to his knees. Then (_nonono!_) the commander produces a gun, unlocks the safety, lovingly caresses the black device before pointing it at Athrun, letting the barrel kiss the blunette's fronthead.

"Sir!" the captain protests but Kira hardly hears, doesn't register anything but Athrun's obediently fallen figure.

"_Monstrosities_," the commander says. "We're at war here, normal humans against monstrosities like this one. You can't have missed that part of the education, can you – about taking care of the freaks whenever one has the opportunity?"

_Someone is holding a gun to Athrun's head, and judging by what he's saying there's a very real possibility that he might fire it. _

Fury and desperate terror hunts down and makes the process short with that remains of the drug that has been incapacitating him; like lightning, like a snake, _like Athrun_ he moves, twists, takes, fires. Less than thirty seconds after the commander's placing his firearm against the blunette's head Kira has forced his way out of a surprised La Flaga's grip, taken custody of the blond's pistol; in a blurry of movements he unlocks the safety, points it at the offender, hugs the trigger.

Surprise underneath the blood rapidly pouring out and obscuring his face, the commander topples over. There's no time to stop and think; before he's even hit the ground Athrun is up, attacking the closest guards while Kira forces himself not to cry and shoots those further away.

The two flanking Athrun are down with a kick and a hit, lying slumped and bleeding on the floor. Three more fall before they've had time for resistance, bullets fitted snugly into their heads. Without hesitation though with a touch of anxiety coloring the non-expression Athrun plucks a pistol from one of his former guards and pads over to the doorway, leans out and aims. The noises of first another shot and then a thick thud announce that he's done away with what is presumably the last newcomer.

Shock no longer roots the Archangel crew to their spots; they're moving around, shouting, arguing, but Kira doesn't care. Almost blind for the tears flooding his aching eyes he stumbles over to Athrun, allows himself to literally fall into the other's arms. Hulking and sobbing he buries his face in the blunette's shoulder, leaving the rest of the world behind.

"Kira," Athrun says and tilts the brunette's head up to kiss him hard. "Come on. We're getting out of here."

Forced to concentrate on pushing horror, disgust, shame, guilt and fear down below the relief and love, Kira obediently lets Athrun tug him along. No one stops them, whether because of the bodies on the floor or the gun still clutched in the blunette's hand.

Two more stranger soldiers guard the machine hall, and quite unceremoniously Athrun pushes Kira in behind a corner, then offs them both. The one mechanic placing himself in their way is efficiently and ruthlessly kicked aside and before anyone else has come near Athrun stomps off against the floor, and his grip around Kira's wrist bring them both floating up towards Strike.

The cockpit is cramped with two of them in it but right now he's only grateful for the almost painful closeness, snuggles into Athrun and continues to sob quietly as the ZAFT elite activates the Gundam. A vicious kick later the portal gives way and they're out in space.

(Inside the G-unit cockpit is like a womb, where they are reborn in/with/for each other. "I love you," Kira says. "I love you so I think I'll die from it.")

xxxxx


	22. Okaeri

**Aurora Borealis**

**Okaeri**

Everything around him is broken apart. Of course a world engaged in war is inevitably and badly torn, but it is only recently that the reality of that has sunk in. Though he tries his best, ardent struggle a little more on autopilot every day, Nicol is still heartbroken by Athrun's disappearance. Several units are searching but the results are scarce (read: nonexistent) and it's more complicated than that anyway. Yes, he wants the blunette back safe and sound about as badly as he has ever wanted anything; however, that is not the entirety of his desire.

Unfortunately he is well aware that he could have had nothing more than perhaps a slightly stronger friendship from his MIA comrade even if Kira hadn't been in the picture and, sighing, he pushes the coverlet aside to get up and dressed. Duties need to be performed, no matter how unusually reluctant he might lately have been to leave his room.

Before, in the beginning of Athrun's and Kira's disappearance, almost any company and task gave comfort, simply because it provided something else to concentrate on, if only just a little and for a little bit. Now, as of two days ago, his locked, cramped bedroom is the only place he can relax. On occasion the complicated lock needs aid from a pillow over his head and some kind of noise, piano or the shower, to allow this.

He doesn't want to hear or see anything of Dearka or Yzak as they currently are– pained, angry specters drifting through the corridors only really registering each other. True, this exclusive fascination has long been the case, but whereas previously it was a source of joy it now causes only further arguments and hurt. Since his own emotions are pretty much locked down to prevent implosion Nicol has lived off his comrades' feelings, absorbing an echo of them. It helped the first week or so, when glowing embarrassment and attraction and warmth vibrated between the other two; now…. now he prefers not to be around them any more than is absolutely necessary. Not only does it eat at him how bad (make that "horrid") the atmosphere around the former roommates is, filled with tears and insults, but when they aren't lashing at one another they use anyone else available as an outlet for their dark moods. More than one technician and lower-ranked solider, considerably more than one, have suffered ruthless and senseless verbal abuse, and aside from Commander Le Kleuze no one is safe.

Nicol, like the captain, had to endure the occasional jab even when Yzak and Dearka were not acting like a couple in divorce. As things are now he doesn't stand a chance. It's easier not to take offense, since he knows that mostly everything they say and do are due to other causes, but it's impossible to completely refrain from letting it get to him.

Which does not, unfortunately, mean that he can avoid his teammates forever. Letting loose yet another sigh he puts on the uniform and smoothes it out, finger-combs his hair – he overslept for the first time ever, too much to have time to waste on freshening himself up properly in the bathroom. Once again he wishes the walls were soundproof, so he wouldn't have had to lie awake trying not to listen to the screaming and crying on the other sides.

Yzak truly is like a ghost, white and strained – he obviously does not sleep but is more zealous than ever before, stripped of all warm qualities. No laughter, smiles or jokes, no sympathy or youth or humanity taint his firm, crisp demeanor; only now does Nicol reflect that it was exclusively in response to Dearka that the Duel pilot ever acted happy.

Where his childhood friend does no longer allow for any faltering or failing, Dearka has slipped into a sort of passive aggressiveness. He does what he's supposed to, and does it well, but he's rude and short to everyone, blowing them off as meanly as he can. Nicol always considered his blond comrade a people person, but perhaps he ought to retract and reword that statement to say instead that Dearka is an Yzak person.

The commander seems not to care about the current emotional state on the ship, and given partly that their battle performance isn't suffering and partly that he himself is the only one not to be attacked, maybe he doesn't have reason to. After all, the two involved certainly wouldn't take kindly to outside meddling.

What Le Kleuze would care about, however, is Nicol's being late, and since he has no desire to be brought in for a reminder of the goodness of duty and discipline he finishes his grooming and carefully sneaks out into the corridor, hoping to avoid encounters.

He makes it to the briefing room before running into Yzak. Offering a polite nod that the Duel pilot doesn't seem to register he retreats to the wall, resting his back against it. He's missed breakfast and the first check on Blitz but he's early for the meeting. If he'd been thinking more clearly he'd have realized this and taken some more time out in his room to avoid having to be alone with the always punctual Yzak. Thankfully the other pays him no notice, just stares stonily into the wall, face looking as though it wants to distort itself with livid rage but lacks the energy. They both incline their heads in acknowledgement when the commander, the captain and their aids appear, Nicol deeply and Yzak so perfectly measured that it's almost an insult. None of them react when Dearka turns up just before the door locks.

At Le Kleuze's indulgent wave they sit down, Nicol and Yzak both in the foremost row of chairs but as far away from each other as possible, Dearka a few lines behind his former roommate. They both pretend that they do not concentrate on one another, that the blond's gaze never bores into the back of the silver head, that the owner of said silver head does not react to that on and off staring.

Tiredly Nicol wishes he could just forget all about them and focus solely on the commander.

"I have some very pleasant news today," Le Klueze announces without preamble. "Our missing Athrun Zala has return, along with Yamato, the Strike Gundam and the location of the legged ship."

The world swims before Nicol in a sea of helpless joy-tears and he has to grab onto the seat to ascertain that he's not flying. _Athrun isn't gone!_ He's alive, he's well, his presumed death has been miraculously transformed into a brilliant victory. He's made it back, with Kira and the long sought-after mobile suit and ship. Even the mention of his brunette lover can't take the edge of Nicol's euphoria; he even feels slightly, pleasantly bad for ever doubting the Aegis pilot's ability to come out on top of the situation.

All the rest of what is said is completely lost to him, save the time at which the two returned will arrive with Strike and Aegis, which was stored elsewhere during Athrun's absence. Only when they're already filing out of the room does he deign to notice his comrades' reactions. Dearka has an expression of strained boredom, though hints of curiosity and relief are peeking through; Yzak only allows a faint sheen of startlement over his closed-off features.

Nicol shrugs and continues to walk on clouds. Just two hours, a measly hundred and twenty minutes, and then Athrun will be here. Usually the youngest member of the Le Klueze Team is apprehensive about upcoming battles, prefers even the nerve-eating waiting to the actual launching and fighting, but now the scheduled skirmish can't come fast enough, for the sooner it's done the sooner Athrun will return to them.

Blitz' movements are smoother and faster than those of any other mobile suit he's ever ridden, and for possibly the first time he truly appreciates it, like he suddenly does the strength of the weaponry the Gundam carries with it. Distraction vanishes, washed away by his determination to finish off as fast as possible.

Yzak is wild as usual, and Dearka too is unusually aggressive. Between the three of them they do away with all resistance in almost no time.

Then they're back among the hushed cheers of the mechanic crew that is immediately and completely silenced by one icily murderous stare from Yzak. After a last glance, only half-jokingly trying to assure himself that his comrades won't kill anyone, Nicol slips away to shower and change out of the spacesuit.

Clearing the mist off of the mirror he inspects his appearance with what he recognizes as adolescent silliness but is still unable to help. What does it matter, anyway?

Finished at last, with newly-brushed hair and in a crisp uniform, he rushes off towards the machine hall to meet the arrivals. Apparently they're a little ahead of schedule for both Aegis and Strike are already here. Nicol stares in almost painful fascination as the red unit's cockpit slides open, allowing a view of a thin, red-suited blunette. With measured, efficient movements Athrun unclasps the straps holding him in place and glides down, landing nimbly on the floor only twenty or so meters away from Nicol. He's tempted to run to the blunette and throw himself into his arms, but the absolute focus Athrun directs at the other Gundam holds him back, like it apparently does the others who've come to watch and greet. Now Strike's cockpit too opens, admitting Kira. This time he as well is shrouded in a red space-suit of ZAFT model, which looks unexpectedly weird on him. Still not affording the audience more than a distracted nod they make their way to each other, standing so close that they might as well have been snuggling and speaking in low, private tones.

Lead steals into his limbs, but Nicol gathers his courage and plasters a smile on his face before approaching. "Athrun!" he calls. "Kira-san. I'm so glad to see you back."

They both turn to face him, rather obviously making an effort to redirect some attention from each other and to him. Sickly smiles distort rather than grace unnaturally pale faces with thick dark lines underneath the weary eyes. Nicol mentally stops in his tracks; he thought Yzak and Dearka were bad off. They are, certainly, but not like this. Clearly it has cost them dearly, whatever they had to do to be able to return.

"Thank you." Surprisingly it's Kira who speaks. "It's… good to be back."

This is probably the only time he could get away with it and he really badly wants to so he sort of ought to take the opportunity to embrace Athrun. Shyness, nerves and a feeling of not having the right to holds him back, like it has so often before, but such an action would probably serve to break the dark mood, or at least temporarily distract from and thus lessen it. Afterwards it might be embarrassing, but that awkwardness, tinted with crushes and youth, will have to be lesser than this one colored in dark shades of failings and sacrifices.

So finally he does it. While it is actually an idea contemplated, discarded and persistently taken up again, one that has inhabited his mind for months, he tries to make it look spontaneous. It'll be easier to explain and excuse it that way, if it doesn't appear like the fruit of planning and consequence-weighing that it actually it.

A startle runs down Athrun's frame as Nicol throws his arms around the blunette's neck. The Blitz pilot notices (hell, he's ultra-sensitive to every minor shift in his comrade at the best of times, let alone now) but ignores it for the time being, choosing instead to savor as much as he can of the famous forbidden fruit by leaning close, not heavily, exactly, but definitely not lightly either. It's a clumsy hug, the kind that if it were a kiss would have their noses bumping none too softly – the thought heats his face, both in blush and flush, and he takes the easy excuse to bury his face in Athrun's shoulder, reveling in the sensation of skin and hair brushing against his above the collar of the spacesuit, in the scent that's by now all but gone from the shirt he… borrowed… some time ago.

_What I should I do about that?_ flitters in lazy panic through his head. _Should I return it to him? Try and sneak it back in without him noticing it was ever gone? Or is it better if I simply pretend I never took it? Would its absence register on him? I should think not, he doesn't seem to pay much attention to what he's dressed in. Yeah, I ought to just keep it – no, wait, Dearka saw me with it. Before he might just have kept quiet, but as he is now he'll spill as fast as he remembers it. But he'll probably do that even if I manage to return it without Athrun noticing it was ever gone, so does that matter? Of course, I could deny any knowledge and claim that he's making up stories but the suspicion would always be there and what would everyone think?_

Apprehensive as he is at the prospect of his hopeless crush being exposed, it's simultaneously extremely comforting that his current worst worry is just his love-interest finding out about an embarrassing incident, not that said love-interest might be dead and gone.

Suddenly frivolous he allows himself to bask in the closeness he has never been invited to share. Having Athrun within the circle of his arms is at once completely alien and like coming home, both awkward and comfortable in a nervously excited way that he knows he ought to repress better than he does in order to minimize the pain that will inevitably follow when he's pushed away. _Is it worth it? A few seconds of having something only to lose it? But I want it regardless of whether I can ever have a taste of it, so why should I pass up the possibility?_ Too late for that now, anyway.

What might be a split second or a year after the initiation of the embrace Athrun's hands raise to clasp his shoulders, perhaps to return the hug or perhaps to push him away. It doesn't do much good to achieve either possible objective, and Nicol reminds himself that Kira is standing right there waiting for them and gathers his discipline, withdraws. For just a second he allows himself to linger, to gaze at the blunette's rather nonplussed face. There's surprisingly little bitterness in the reflection, _He doesn't react at all to my hugging him; at Kira' mere presence his entire demeanor changes, like he freaking melts for him._ The thought moves his eyes to the brunette still standing beside them, has him wondering whether the purple look can be considered _knowing_, isn't sure whether the prospect alarms him or even whether it should alarm him.

"Shall we go?" Athrun suggests at last, and Nicol and Kira both nod. They walk with the blunette between them, the lovers' hands brushing with every step and the Blitz pilot feigning ignorance of this.

Five minutes later they arrive in the populated parts of the ship, find Yzak and Dearka in a lounge area. The silver-haired solider has his back against the wall, blue eyes wide and a little glazed before he snaps to attention. His blond companion is sprawled on the one couch, and Nicol briefly wonders whether he was pushed there. That the two are constantly upset is nothing new to him, but this time they seem a little more _alive_ than they recently have, a little less drained and pained.

Unsurprisingly, having never met them before, Kira can't be too clearly aware that something's off, but the blunette is obviously taken aback.

"Athrun," Yzak says, and Dearka nods, as though to be considered part of the greeting.

"Yeah," the blunette replies, tired and questioning and inching towards Kira.

Nothing more is said before they continue on their way a few awkward moments later. Nicol's inquiry as to where they're headed is answered that they're supposed to meet the commander for reporting in an hour, previous to which they were hoping to get to their room and rest up a little.

"Of course," Nicol says. "It's just as you left it. Only, the room between it and mine isn't empty anymore, Dearka sleeps there."

"What?" Athrun asks, apparently understandably startled. "What the heck is going on with him and Yzak?"

Nicol doesn't like to feel like a gossipmonger, but he's been more or less forced to contemplate that particular question during a fairly long period of time by now and so sees little harm in responding with his most qualified conjectures. Besides, it's all but necessary information for anyone hoping to deal with the two involved, and whereas Athrun can probably handle himself it's apparent that Kira is a gentle soul, and even with the blunette to take care of him… well, to put it simply Nicol rather doubts that Athrun is capable of quite the same meanness as certain other people aboard. "I think they slept together," he therefore states. "After that I figure Dearka must have said something stupid because Yzak threw him out. They've been insufferable ever since."

Two pairs of eyebrows rocket upward before Athrun slowly nods, apparently _quite_ surprised by this piece of news. Nicol wonders how he ought to react; then doesn't have to do anything because Kira laughs, a light, glad sound shaking off the previous tension. "Come _on_," he teases affectionately. "You've been in the same room as those two for more than five seconds, and it _wasn't_ obvious to you that they're in love?"

Hence thankfully it is among headshakes and laughter that Nicol leaves them, returning to his own quarters to hide the shirt Athrun will hopefully soon forget about and perhaps play a little, a happy, hopeful tone to contrast all the grief his poor instrument has been forced to voice lately.

Against reason he can't ignore the temptation to sneak quietly through the same corridor they passed before, to throw a glance at his other two comrades. They _have_ been acting peculiar, after all.

His plan goes awry when Yzak brusquely brushes past him, headed in the opposite direction, stomping fast and hugging himself with one arm, free hand fingering his lips.

Despite how unhappy the Duel pilot still seems Nicol might have interpreted that last gesture as a sign that Yzak and Dearka have kissed and made up, were it not for the sight that greets him just past the lounge area. The Buster pilot too is feeling his own face, and true enough a fingertip strokes over his mouth, but most of his concentration seems focused on the large bruise rapidly taking shape on his jaw.

Pressing down the instinctive impulse to offer to fetch an icepack, Nicol silently slips past the other and locks his door between them.

xxxxx


	23. Damned if you Do, Damned if you Don't

**Aurora Borealis**

**Damned if you Do, Damned it you Don't**

So Athrun's back.

Yay.

He ought to be relived, and just a bit irritated and jealous.

He hasn't ever liked the blue-haired git who somehow always managed to get on top of him without even really trying and now the dumb fuck has taken care of the cursed legged ship that thwarted him, Yzak, for so long, but…

Even so he prefers Athrun insufferable and alive before Athrun dead. After all, the Aegis pilot is _Yzak's_ nemesis and teammate and no sodding natural idiot should have the audacity to bring him down, not a ZAFT elite.

So now the git is back, along with his little sweetheart whom Yzak still refuses to believe mastered Strike. Instead of an early grave he'll get credit and cheers, perhaps even a promotion, and Yzak ought to care about this but in infuriation finds that he doesn't give a damn. It is as though Athrun is no longer in possession of anything worthy of Yzak's envy – true enough, the blunette doesn't have Dearka, does he?

The unintentional thought has him swallowing an undignified yelp and smashing his left fist into the wall. At the impact he does give in the to urge to wince, gingerly moving to cradle and blow on his sore knuckles. The very same knuckles, actually, that very recently made contact in a similar fashion with a surface quite different –

This is inexcusably pathetic.

He's in the middle of a raging war that is no longer centered only on dominance but also on mere survival, and all he can pay attention to, all he can think and care about, is Dearka. Admittedly, even before things became complicated between him and the blond the war in itself was rarely subject for contemplation – it simply is, like the need to breath, like gravity, an unfortunate fact of life that can't be changed anyway, only dealt with to the best of one's ability, something that it's meaningless to ponder because the musings just hurt and won't change anything in either case.

A world without fighting isn't anything he's capable of truly imagining. It's the same thing as with concepts such as "happy family" or "school without rivalry" – he knows they exist, or at least that the public consensus it that they do and thus that one has to play along and pretend as though they were real, even though he's never experienced them, leads a life so far from them that they appear a sick joke. That's the trick, really; to be aware both of what is real and of what is considered real, so as to be able to navigate between the two rarely compatible categories.

It's nice and politically correct to speak dreamily of a peaceful world, but reality isn't like that and probably never will be, and if he lived on hope he'd be dead by now. Hell, _peace_ is even the least abstract concept, one he actually has memories of. It's just that they're far off and his own life was a war-zone regardless.

That is to say, the changes aren't that big and partly for the better. Were it not for the horridity of Junius Seven that was needed to prompt it, he might even have gone so far as to say he's something approaching grateful. After all, battling opponents that he can actually win against and who can only hurt him physically is a clear and definite improvement.

For him there has only ever been one thing that both should and does exist without painfully obvious complications.

Clumsy with uncertainty and childish need his right hand goes from his still-tingling lips to where he knows the little scars are at the base of his neck to the smarting knuckles of his other hand.

In his mind he is once more in the lounge area, minutes before Athrun returned with his self-proclaimed escorts. Dearka is there too, only feet away, and it hurts to care, Yzak knows all too well how much it can hurt to care, but right now it hurts too much not to and so when the blond faces him he doesn't turn his gaze away.

Occasional and somewhat cooling off as the efforts have been, Dearka has been reaching out these past days. Rightly, since it's all his fault, of course. (_who the hell am I kidding i'm the one who slept with him not like i'd let anyone else ruin my life_) For the first time Yzak finds himself tentatively accepting the possibility of a peace offering. They stand frozen, silent and strained and staring, until something bursts, he has to move. Even he isn't certain whether he meant to get closer or farther and he doesn't have the time to decide before Dearka's hand finds his, hard muscle shrouded in soft, hardly at all callused skin enclosing his hand.

It's one thing to want back what they had; it's all right to look back in longing at and strive to find anew normal companionship, someone to fight and joke with – it's something else entirely to choke on the desire that strives to consume him.

He can't stop his face from going softer, lips parting a few millimeters and eyelids growing heavier, can't hinder his features from spilling forth a pleading demand to be kissed. Dearka leans downwards almost immediately, purple eyes wide and glassy, and Yzak's head tilts backwards to let their mouths meld together.

It is… very nice. Hollow as they may be the touches hunt melting heat through his frame and he remembers quite clearly why he didn't say _no_ any of the other times either. Still, those occasions took place before a certain line stood between them, and with it there now he can't allow himself to enjoy this as much as he does. _Not gay, huh?_ Still that reply suggests that however eager Dearka might be right now he probably doesn't consider it real or serious but rather sees it as a stop-gap measure, a fun pastime until he can hook up with some girl to marry.

Yzak isn't going to compete with that – he knows far too well what if feels like to strive endlessly for someone's desperately needed approval and always fall short to do that to himself. Whoever said that it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all obviously has never had their father spit in their face.

While these musings have made their merry way through his mind he nonetheless hasn't moved away; on the contrary he's actually pressed up even closer than he was before, clinging feverishly to Dearka and reveling in every second of it.

That has to end, as the sobering and undeniable realization rings through him, _If I fall for him now I won't be able to get up again._

Thus he starts struggling, physically and mentally both, against himself more than against Dearka though it's the blond who gets to receive his punch. Moving away even the barest millimeters, untangling himself, not to mention actively attacking, is among the hardest trials he has ever had to put himself through, for he probably hasn't ever craved anything as frantically as he does Dearka.

This plainly bodily desire now is what should matter the least, but certain other parts of his anatomy are considerably harder than his fists when he finally breaks free and stumbles away.

What do you do when you've reached the point at which you can live neither with nor without a certain someone?

xxxxx

Perched precariously on the edge of his bed, legs drawn up to his chest and arms hugging them, Sai stares into the wall, studying the indefinite light nuance. Not quite blue, not quite gray, but closer to both of those than to white. Isn't blue the one color that's forbidden in mental hospitals because it's supposed to make the inhabitants so depressed?

Sai isn't insane, though, depressed as he might currently feel; and anyway, he doubts that condition would be lessened by anything as trivial as the hue of his walls. _His_ walls, since Kuzzey's dead and so can longer stake any claim on them, and his new roommate Tolle has left for Miriallia's lighter company. Sai doesn't blame him.

After all, the latest crisis hit them all hard, and he himself is perhaps taking it more to heart than he should. Still, Kira's gone again, after killing several EA soldiers, and now it'd be stupid not to realize that it can only be a matter of time before ZAFT turns up and lays claim on the Archangel. Running, hiding and fighting back are all hopeless alternatives, hence there isn't really anything left to do. They've lost, and can only hope that the Coordinator military will be benevolent.

He feels sick to his stomach, with helplessness and dread. Everything since the war came and claimed them has hurt, and now it's catching up to him. Yesterday he found he could not take care of Fllay anymore, that his ability to be patient and soothing and protective has run dry. Of course this means that he can't be near her any longer – he can't help her, and she can't help him either, so they're both better of apart, at least for the time being. That way less unforgivable words will stand between them later. As for himself he's always careful with his wordings, would never say anything truly inappropriate, but given the overall bad situation and his girlfriend's particularly sore emotions even the little critique he let slip yesterday might be too harsh. And she, needless too say, is still much too hurt to care about anyone else's feelings. Sai knows that and tries not to let it get to him, but it's certainly not a very pleasant experience to be scathingly compared to the Coordinators that so recently left them.

Kira – is Kira still theirs? Sai considers the brunette his friend, that hasn't wavered, but it's a more complicated friendship than it used to be, mostly due to the natural's admittedly unfair bitterness over his dead comrades; such things happen i wars, and he understands why it occurred.

And sure, Kira was occasionally put through some questionable treatment, such as the hostage thing, but nobody wanted that and it was simply necessary, nothing personal. Though it's probably inevitable that it changes them, it shouldn't have to crush their emotional bonds.

"_I respect and care for all of you, and I would certainly not wish to harm you. However, I will never let you hurt Athrun."_

"_You're on his side?" "Yes."_

The only credible assumption would be that the brunette and his… _friend_… have gone to ZAFT. That is, after all, where the blunette appears to consider himself home, and Kira has made it exceedingly clear that he won't willingly separate himself from the other. True, Athrun did make the process short with a couple of ZAFT vessels, but even if anyone should try and spill he can simply deny it. PLANT would hardly trust a few natural captives over a Councilman's elite son.

If they do not accuse him of anything, they'll probably have a better chance. For all that he was on the opposite side and killed several people that Sai knew, the blunette didn't strike him as a bad person. Of course, that certainly doesn't necessarily mean that the rest of ZAFT can't be rotten; gods know the EA isn't perfect.

"Shit," he says aloud. "Bloody, shitty hell."

He doesn't remember ever cursing before, and the experience leaves him wondering why other people appear to find such pleasure in the practice. The words taste strange and bring only a vague sense of distaste, none of the relief he foolishly hoped for.

"Hey," a pleasant male voice calls from the doorway. Instantly recognizing it as La Flaga's and past the point of politeness Sai doesn't bother to turn and face the lieutenant. Unfazed by his rudeness the blond man saunters in and sits down on Tolle's bed, in front of Sai with only a meter or so between them. "You don't look so good. Feeling okay?"

Shrugging is childish, typical teenage behavior, but when all is said and done he is a teenager and he's damned tired of trying to ignore it. "It's nothing."

"Really?" La Flaga inquires blandly. "Myself, I'm rather beat."

Against his will Sai's tension eases a little; the older man simply is the kind of person to help with that, just by being there. Indeed, his prowess in battle has never been the main reason that they all listen so intently to him. "All right," he admits. "I'm not great. Then again, if I did feel great in this situation I'd probably need therapy." More than he already does, that is. "But I'm okay. I appreciate your concern, but it's not needed." He smiles a little. "I didn't think I'd given Tolle and Miriallia reason to be so worried as to ask you to come check on me."

The blond grins effortlessly. "They said it's not like you to be holed up pouting. I agree. Furthermore, I'm not here to baby you – you're too old for that, if you weren't already before then certainly after you got involved with us. Figured we could just talk for a bit instead."

Sai isn't sure what to think about the offer – is it a sincere one or just the sort of phrasing adults always use to try and make you open up to them? In the end he decides that perhaps it doesn't much matter.

"Kira's been on my mind," he says. "On the one hand I can't get over how he shot those people, on the other I'm not surprised at all. Sure, he's a good person, far too good to be part of this godforsaken war, but he's already been fighting for us for a long time, and if he'd go that far for just us, then it's really not too startling that he'd do what he did for Athrun. I mean, they kinda…"

He trails of in uncertainty, face heating up. _Yes, Sai, they kinda… what? What were you planning to say? I'm pretty sure they're in love? After all, hey, they were practically clinging to each other more or less constantly and Miriallia giggled about seeing them kiss though I pretended not to hear that?_

It's not that Sai minds, per say – what they choose to do and with who is their own business, but it's a subject which he's faintly uncomfortable thinking about. It's just… not _wrong_, of course, but it doesn't seem exactly _right_ for two boys to do that kind of thing with each other, either.

"I know," La Flaga says, sparing him the need to say more and not seeming thrilled about the current topic either.

"Anyway," Sai continues, needing suddenly to say aloud some of what he's been thinking, "I didn't really know Kira before the war. We went to the same school and all that but we certainly weren't close. I didn't even know he was a Coordinator. I think he started to feel obligated to help us after we stepped in between him and those soldiers back in Heliopolis, when you'd just declared him not to be a natural, and that's not fair, because what we did then and what he had to do after weren't the same thing at all. I mean, guns or no guns we couldn't even imagine that anyone would actually fire, it was nothing more than a gesture, nothing that involved anything _real_ – nothing like what he had to do. He de facto killed people. I wasn't sure he'd come back after I helped him get away to return Ms Clyne. He did, though. After that, I suppose I sort of figured he belonged with us, so I was more shocked and hurt than I should have been when he put Athrun above us. And Athrun was… at the same time exactly like and nothing at all like I'd expected a Coordinator to be."

"Indeed," La Flaga agrees. "For them the war isn't grey like it is to us, it's about clear differences where one is right and the other wrong. Considering Junius Seven, who can blame them? Still, no matter how comparatively lenient they were, those N-Jammers ruined a great deal of the Earth's energy resources. The inhabitants of Junius Seven weren't the only innocent victims, simply the first ones."

"If the EA and their superiors hadn't the started a war, there'd have been considerably less victims. On both sides."

"No use denying that," the lieutenant says mildly. "But people are hurt and afraid and angry. We all are. I'd be fidgety about any angsty teenager who could beat up me and my crew without breaking a sweat, regardless of whether his genes had been tampered with."

"Do you think he would truly have hurt Fllay?" Sai finds himself asking. At the time being he didn't doubted it, but the calmer and kinder Athrun afterwards made him question this certainty. Even the most recent events haven't been sufficient to clear out his ponderings on the matter – killing able opponents threatening you is a matter quite different from attacking an unarmed girl.

"Kira seemed to believe so," La Flaga replies off-handedly, "and I don't doubt that he had reason to." He gives a light shrug. "I wonder what kind of people they will send to pick us up – depends partly on what Blue Hair tells them about us, I suppose, and I'm not sure at all what he thinks of us. Ordinarily Kira's caring for us would have solved it since Athrun wouldn't go against him, regardless of certain early incidents, but after these last happenings I've no idea what will come about."

_Kira might not care anymore._

_What if we are suddenly the ones under scrutiny, like he was at Artemis? Is there even any guarantee that ZAFT will keep us alive? Athrun was so furious about Fllay, and mere hours before they left Kira said, what was it? "You sick cowards"? Oh gods, what's going to happen to us now?_

xxxxx


	24. D Return of the Girl Hunter

**Aurora Borealis**

**D – Return of the Girl Hunter**

Staring grimly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, Dearka starts violating his manliness by forlornly wishing that he had some makeup at hand. After all, it is quite embarrassing to turn up with a large, blue-black mark covering a large part of his face, especially when everyone will know that it appeared _in between_ battles. And Dearka is well aware that powder and such stuff can be used for far better ends than beautifying girls – time and time again Yzak has woken up with marks, only to have somehow gotten rid off them while officially brushing his teeth. All day the bruises are gone, but after their owner's washing his face before going to bed they're present again. It's magic or makeup, and so long as Yzak doesn't hear him say it Dearka will bet his money on the latter.

Once, when he'd learnt about it just days before, back when they were still in school, they had wandered into the clothes section of a department store and Dearka couldn't help teasing, needed to bring up the subject somehow because there was something _off_. So he pointed at a dress featured on a mannequin to their left, saying, "Would you look darling in that?"

Casting a brief glance at the fashion, Yzak raised a disdainful eyebrow. "No way. That color would so not sympathize with my hair, can't you see that? If I were to wear a dress it would be something along the lines of that-" he nodded at a blue one, then caught sight of a black one and inclined his head towards it "-or that. Idiot."

"Um, Yzak… I will probably regret saying this, but you seem to have a frighteningly good idea of which women's clothes you'd fit in."

"You're right," Yzak replied, surprisingly unruffled, and arrogant as always. "You will regret saying that."

He did, right then, because his friend has never been a gentle soul, but in the long run he doesn't. Why would he bother to waste regret on something so easily and readily forgiven when so much worse has happened?

_Yzak's mouth on his, soft and eager_

_Yzak's fist in his face, hard and reluctant._

Both sensations are far too vivid, far too familiar, the stuff of which his life is made.

_Well, fuck that. I'm off anyway, apparently._ He can't decide how he feels about the mission to go take charge of the transportation of the Archangel from the Debris Belt where it was evidently hidden and back to ZAFT territory. The order was given to him a mere hour ago, just after they let Athrun and his little lover out of Le Klueze's office at last.

"I expect it to be a smooth run," the commander told him, "but we can afford to send one of you and the legged ship has a history of creating trouble for us. 4th Squad has already taken custody of the ship and started moving it; you need only take Buster there and assure that there are no problems. Remember that the objective is to capture, not kill, even if the EA should send additional forces. I expect you'll be back in time for the surveillance visit from the Council."

Grimacing at his reflection he decides that there's no use crying over spilt milk (or, as the case is here, lack of makeup) and starts for his Gundam. To send him seems more than a tad overkill but it's not for him to judge and he can see why he was chosen, much as he attempts to expel that particular subjects from his thoughts. Under normal circumstances Nicol ought to be the one picked for waste-of-time assignments such as this one, being that the little softie isn't much good in real battle anyway, but the situation has gotten out of hand. More so than he allowed himself to realize, if Le Klueze is letting it affect his decisions. Obviously, and for obvious reasons, half the objective with the mission is to give him and Yzak some time apart, and considering the peaceful overtones to the assignment Dearka's considerably better suited than the Duel pilot.

Sighing and rubbing tiredly at his eyes he reflects that he should be relived, should consider it a welcome respite to calm his thoughts, but he sure as hell doesn't. To leave Yzak, even for just two days or so, is too much like leaving himself.

He seriously contemplates searching the volatile but attached Duel pilot out to say goodbye. The memory of the kiss, the sensation of which is seemingly tattooed onto his lips, drives him towards that course of action even as the re-starting ache from the ugly bruise holds him back.

Before he's gotten anywhere near a decision Yzak is there, appears silvery and sudden like a ghost. Eyes that are usually sapphire in hue gleam darker now, midnight-colored, haunted and so cold they're hot, like ice on skin. _Stop it_, Dearka tells himself, _stop thinking that he looks waif-y and that you wanna hug him, it's demeaning and he'd kill you._ But it's tempting because Yzak must have rushed here, and the only feasible reason for that would be that he's heard that Dearka's taking off and wanted to see him before that – whitish hair provide a ruffed halo, clear evidence of Yzak hurrying because he never allows it to do that, always tames it and has it hanging like a smooth velvety drapery.

"I'll kill you," he says now through the errant silver stand of hair clinging to his mouth, a dark intensity to words so hard they're brittle.

_I my fat idiot_, Dearka thinks. _Ouch._

Actually, "ouch" doesn't even begin to cover it.

He has himself to blame, of course. To think Yzak couldn't move very fast simply because he seems weary and frail – that's a dangerous sort of stupidity. His croutch pays for it through the sudden blazing reacquainting with the other pilot's knee. Unable to even groan, to do anything save pant heavily through desperately clenched teeth, he takes two halting steps before keeling over. Aided by Yzak's hand on his shoulder he ends up on his back, soon with the other leaning closely over him in a perverse echo of when they shagged.

_What kind of sick circle have we stumbled into? Lust and violence just continuing to intertwine – is it gonna end by us sleeping together again and subsequently killing each other? We have to… have to stop this, make things right again, somehow, because_

His thoughts fall gradually silent, soon forgotten, for reason is fickle and unimportant compared to the hot-smooth, hard-soft feeling of Yzak's fingers ghosting over his face. First there's the light scratch of nails, then the exquisite silk of finger-pads, finally the familiar coarseness of callused palms. All these sensations steal lightly over his features before firming, becoming a bowl of bony limbs cupping his face, one stray fingertip burying itself in his hair and tentatively poking at the skin of his scalp.

Right when the pain has finally abided sufficiently to allow him the ability of speech Yzak kisses him. They're lying on the floor in one of the public corridors and Yzak is kissing him, not a chaste or shy peck but a deep, devouring snog that would tempt Dearka to respond by rolling over and pinning him if it weren't for the hurt caused by getting excited after so recently having a knee showed into his groin.

Though apparently through kissing him Yzak doesn't remove himself but rather leans even more heavily on him, tucking his head under Dearka's chin, cheek resting against the Buster pilot's upper torso. "I'll kill you if you die," he says, finishing the line from before. "Do you hear me? If you _ever_ dare die I'll fucking kill you."

"Yeah," Dearka replies, rearranging his arms to that they're draped heavily over Yzak's back, one hand playing over his neck. "I won't ever leave you."

As fast as the silly, untrue, cheesy words are out of his mouth he braces himself for impact but none comes; there are a few moments of still silence, then Yzak pushes himself up on one elbow, peers down at Dearka's face, his own inscrutable. For a second the Buster pilot thinks, knows, hopes that the other is about to brush their lips together again but after a light sigh Yzak merely raises one eyebrow and says, "And here I thought that was exactly what you had been ordered to and were in the process of doing?"

"Well, eh, that's…" Dearka's famous for his talent for bullshitting but they're both aware it's never done him much good around Yzak and he's afraid suddenly of saying the wrong things even as he tries to understand what the wrong things are.

"Let's get you going, then," the Duel pilot cuts him off, rising to his feet and extending one hand in offering. Dearka grabs on to it gratefully, giving a discontent snort as Yzak helps pull him to his feet. The pain is still there but no worse than that he can move mostly freely, and after assessing as much his former roommate nods a little and turns to stalk away. For whatever reason, though, he has neglected to free his hand, which is still resting in Dearka's, and following some crazy impulse (half just plain not wanting to part, half not wanting to be reduced to merely reacting to what his counterpart does) the Buster pilot tightens his fingers around it, tugs Yzak back towards him. Perhaps surprised the other doesn't struggle, allows Dearka to haul him in and start the kissing anew.

He meant it to be a mere goodbye peck, but then again, that evening after the French disaster he only meant to see if Yzak was hurt, not halfway sleep with him, so perhaps he oughtn't to be surprised that it doesn't precisely go according to plan.

For the first time since their odd liaison began Yzak neither responds in kind nor hits him, instead just stands there passively for a handful of seconds letting himself be frenched. Eventually he tugs loose, gaze fixed on a crack in the ceiling.

"So, eh, I guess I'll, uh, see you later, then," Dearka stutters, trying to bridge the rapidly increasing distance with words now that physical contact has been denied him.

No answer is given, not in word or gesture or expression; Yzak walks back towards the living area and Dearka trots towards the machine hall.

Seated rather comfortably inside his Gundam he lazily muses over the unlikeliness of the situation, the ridiculously low odds Athrun and his little brunette had for stumbling over the legged ship. On the other hand the blunette always has been lucky like that and it's never much use to look a gift horse in the mouth. Following this last train of thought to its logical conclusion Dearka turns on the autopilot and leans back, preparing to nod off.

The warning beep that wakes him up a couple of hours later announces that he's arrived at the outmost edge of the Debris Belt; from here on he'll have to navigate by himself. A few quick commands later he has the exact position of the Archangel and proceeds to land.

It's humbler than he expected it to be, he concludes after storing Buster in the machine hall and exiting the unit. Oh, certainly it's a miracle compared to all other EA vessels he's ever seen or heard of, but it's been sort of a long time since it sank in that this Archangel isn't exactly an ordinary ship in any way, and when using ZAFT models as reference it really isn't all that great.

Two 4th Squad officers greet him, giving him a brief tour of the vessel. Between their dull company and the lack of obvious entertainment it doesn't take Dearka longer than half a minute to decide that it's going to be a very long two days before he's back where he belongs.

The only feature that could possibly provide him with any amusement is the prisoners, some of whom he's actually familiar with rumors about. Mu La Flaga, Hawk of Endymion, is supposed to be something as extravagant and peculiar as a competent natural. The two concepts don't fit, usually seem to be mutually exclusive, but according to popular belief the lieutenant in question is a more than fair strategist and an exceedingly accomplished fighter. Well, he'd have to be for Commander Le Klueze to take an interest in him.

The other one he's heard rumors about is the Allister girl. Reading news papers has never been high on his list of favorite activities, but when you're holed up in a waiting room and the choice is flipping through the paper or staring blindly into the wall for half an hour – well. Since the texts weren't especially interesting he spent a good five minutes staring at the picture of the spoiled red-haired girl. Kinda pretty, least if he'd seen her when boobs still ranked top on his List of Most Important Features.

To pour his sarcasm and general mean comments over the ZAFT crew wouldn't be very rewarding – 4th Squad aren't known for their intelligence so why throw pearls before swine? Plus it isn't exactly smart to make his subordinates hate him, however tempting it might currently seem.

The prisoners, on the other hand… and he has to admit he's faintly curious as to what kind of naturals managed to escape them for such a long stretch of time. Now, let's see, there are the civilians confined in a hall further inside the ship, but what he's interested in is the crew, and if he remembers correctly they ought to be locked up in the private rooms adjourning to that corridor they passed while they were showing him the layout of the place.

Not having bothered to find out who's where or even to decide whom he wants to see, the picks the first door at random and starts fiddling with the lock. It's surprisingly easy, even for a natural ship, and allows the door to glide open after only a few seconds. Heck, his primary school computer had a more advanced security system.

It's quite a dull room, but not significantly worse than the ones he regularly inhabits himself and right now it has its good sides – namely two girls seated on the farthest bed, both of them his own age and both dressed in the extremely sexist pink uniform of junior female EA employees. Closest to him is a bland chick with vaguely cute but entirely forgettable features, mainstream gold-brown hair and mainstream blue eyes. In between her and the wall, crouched around her up-drawn knees and staring at him with blearily watchful eyes, is Fllay Allister.

"Hello," he calls cheerfully. "Dearka Elthman here."

"Who…" the brunette girl says uncertainly. "You're… you're the ZAFT officer come to take charge?"

"Well, yeah, pretty much," he says, trying to decide whether to be amused or insulted at her incredulity. He's almost settled for the first option when Fllay Allister suddenly and shockingly charges, throwing herself recklessly forward, attacking him like an angry cat. Hissing, clawing and crying she launches herself at him, almost managing to smash into him before he catches himself and restrains her. "Oi, oi, calm down," he tries to reassure/rebuke the hysterical girl, unfortunately not with much success. This is not the sort of situation he is at all familiar with, and frustration frays his nerves as he finds himself continually unable to provide any aid or relief. "Come on!" he snaps, giving her a shake, fingers closed hard around her shoulders. "Look, I respect your grieving your father, but wailing about it to me won't help any! People die in wars, all right, and it's not like he was even halfway innocent!"

She chokes, gurgles, then starts trashing even more violently in his hold, and he doesn't know what to do; is subsequently relived when the other girl gets up from the bed and walks over to them, fitting calm, kind hands around Fllay. "Come here," she says softly, and her words have all the impact that Dearka's evidently didn't, allows her to lead the other girl back to the bed and gently seat her on it. Then, after a last motherly caress over matted red hair, she turns back towards the Coordinator, sweet face suddenly tight and cloudy with dark emotion.

"You piece of _shit_!" she exclaims, and Dearka barely manages to catch her hand before she can slap him. "I don't care who you think you are, you are no better or worse than any of us, how can you just go and say such things, don't you have a caring bone in your body! I know we're at war and everything but there are limits! I'm tired of all you solider boys marching in and out and thinking you're the only ones entitled to be hurt! The girl lost her father! You… you…!"

Tears enchant her eyes, make them darker and have them glimmering; he stares, entranced, hardly noticing how sobs strangle her words or how her face scrunches up with the force of her crying. She spoke about a father and she's so hurt and blue, blue eyes are gazing up at him and unlike the person he sort of wishes she were she seems willing to let him help, doesn't argue at all as he tentatively, uncertainly, uncomfortably wraps his arms around her, rocking back and forth and stroking her back and clumsily trying to assure her that everything will turn out all right in the end.

He'd never say that to Yzak, because they are both far too well aware that the Duel pilot wouldn't believe him.

_That ends now, though_. He's going to _make_ Yzak believe, in him and them and happy endings, whether his comrade wants to or not. He'll make Yzak make them both fix everything, and so what if the happy ending is a lie, so long as they come out of it alive and together?

"It's okay," he tells the girl crying against his chest. "We'll make sure it's okay. How about that, miss…?"

"Miriallia," she says, smiling a little through the tears. "Miriallia Haww. Pleased to – well, considering the circumstances I'm sure you wouldn't believe me if I say I'm pleased to meet you, but I'm not displeased about it either."

"That's a start, I guess," he finds himself replying, thoughts fixed firmly on Yzak. Well, nothing new there.

xxxxx


	25. The Less Appreciated Shower Scene

**Aurora Borealis**

**The Less Appreciated Shower Scene**

The room isn't as familiar as it should be. While Athrun has never much cared for it or invested any true emotion in it, always considered it merely a convenient place to rest up in on occasion and never anything approaching home, it still ought to give more comfort than it does. The claustrophobia-tinted smallness, the sparse and durable furniture of mostly plastic, the light indefinite colors and what few personal artifacts he's stored in it –they should provide some semblance of relief but instead only serves to remind him of the room they inhabited on the Archangel. In a sense even more irking is the fact that that comparison and likeness doesn't disturb him. Rooms, regardless of locations, are merely rooms. What matters is what happens in them.

Hands twitching closed at that thought, he half-involuntarily whips around to face his companion, who is thankfully still smiling. Athrun drinks in the sunny expression as he might down an elixir.

Next second the elation evaporates, though, for something has evidently shown on his face that chases every semblance off happiness off of Kira's features. Haunted and hungry for assurance they are, and yellowishly pale – the brunette might be better now than during and immediately after their flight, as is Athrun himself, but it is quite clear that the figurative scarring still aches.

Seemingly perpetually emotionally drained as of late, Athrun finds that he... has absolutely nothing to say to that.

They moved beyond the realm that words can express or find meaning in long ago. Certainly he can summarize, can pluck phrases from his memory that used to be strong and important but now seems curiously disconnected from their underlying meaning, but that's all it would be, mere words.

_I turned traitor and killed my own._

_You murdered people with little more than your bare hands._

_I love you. Sometimes I come close to wishing that I didn't, because everything was so much easier when I wasn't so ruled by emotion, but you were right, I love you, I love you so I think I'll die from it._

Fluent in four languages and quite verbally gifted from birth, Athrun has very seldom had trouble expressing himself. On the contrary he's rather adept at all kinds of communication, from speeches to lectures to military conversation. It gets trickier when the talks turn personal, when the words go from being a wall between him and the others to become a shaky sort of bridge.

He holds his hand out, a silent offer of everything he is.

Immediately, before it's even fully extended, Kira grabs hold of it, weaving their fingers together. Wordlessly still they step closer, gingerly yet unavoidably, like wild animals having caught sight of a fire. "Athrun," Kira chokes then, and inside the other's arms Athrun feels the agony that has this far been too great to be handled slowly peel asunder, fall into leaden but bearable pains inside him.

A tentative but hurried couple of steps later they arrive at the bed, curl up on it all tangled in each other, seeking comfort to ease the neediness as kittens might seek warmth. In the dusky room, buried under bedsheets and in Kira's embrace, mind reeling under the pressure of guilt and hatred, most of which directed at himself, Athrun feels large parts of himself slip away, heedless of his uncertain attempts to stop them. The Athrun of the last few years, the Athrun that he can no longer stand, the accomplished and cold soldier, the well-raised son of Councilman Zala, the falsely sociable loner – they tone away, peeled away by hurt and shame.

Left underneath, uncovered and unrestricted now, is a frail person, a memory of a person, achingly pure as only the new can be, the Athrun that started digging his own grave that day among the cherry trees that wept pale petals all over them. A vulnerable idea of a person that is nursed by Kira snuggled into him, so tightly and completely on so many levels that it's tempting to regard the two of them as a single entity, or possibly two entities with a single soul. Ridiculous and badly poetic the notion might be, but the new-old Athrun now firming his hold on reality, on his existence, can afford that.

It's all right. Kira's here, and so is he, and it's all right to wax cheesy romantic.

What to his muddled senses feels like approximately an hour later, when they have both found some sort of peace, Kira absently scrubs his hands against Athrun's chest. "Blood on them," the brunette mutters, sounding sleepily grumpy rather than outright despaired and horrified as has previously been the case.

"It matters," Athrun says, echoing Kira's words that drugged evening on the Archangel, the absolution given. One of his lover's hands is caught in his and he firms his hold around it, breaths a kiss over the knuckles, "but not half, not a tenth so much as other things." Then, because they live in a world where it seems to need to be said a lot, and because he wants to say it, can't help speaking it aloud, "I love you."

Kira smiles at that, not the sickeningly empty expression he was wont to feature during their journey in Strike and which Athrun was tempted to slap off his face, nor even the shallowly though honestly glad expression Nicol's lighthearted gossip brought forth – no, this is a real, deep, private smile so sweet that it eats away at Athrun with an almost painful intensity.

Before Kira's response has completely given way for silence a knock resounds through the room, affirming quite firmly what has been made all right just recently, that they are no longer cut off from time or the rest of the world. "Zala-san, Yamato-san, the commander requests your presence in his office effective immediately."

"Thank you," Athrun calls. "We'll be there shortly."

Getting up is a slower process than normal, one craving considerably much more effort and thought. It is as though he has not stood up in a long time, long enough that his legs aren't sure they remember how to work anymore. He inwardly shakes his head; he might cling to this newfound purity, but the world isn't an easy place to keep anything in and there are more valuable things to protect than that. Their fingers intertwine again, linking them, acting as a single limb of flesh in different hues – he stares at it for several seconds before gently tugging Kira to his feet. The brunette's face is elfish in the dim light, hollow and dazed.

"You don't have to come with me," Athrun says, freeing his hand and turning partly away to liberate a uniform from the closet. There, he grabs the closest one on its hangar and drops it on the rumbled bed; the distinct feel of the red fabric is almost unfamiliar to him. Not entirely so, though, and there's no hesitation in the movement as he starts unbuttoning the shirt he shrugged into after abandoning the space suit. He ought to have showered, he belatedly remembers, it's not fitting to appear before one's commander with sweat and dirt still clinging to one's person. Le Klueze has never been petty, but on the other hand Athrun has never seen the blond in anything less than impeccable attire. Well, no use worrying about that now.

"I'll go," Kira mumbles, arms trembling their way around Athrun's waist. "I think I'd rather face it up-front." An exhalation-verging-on-sigh hits Athrun's left shoulder. "Should I… change or something?"

"I see. Yes, you might want to do that."

Kira reluctantly releases him, allowing him to lean into the wardrobe again. Neutral black pants suitable for political dinners in fine restaurants, a white shirt of the model normally worn below the red jacket; Athrun might not have much of a sense for fashion, but you can't grow up the son of important politicians and not gain a rudimentary idea of what's appropriate. They change in silence, still touchy-feely enough button up each other's shirts as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

Le Klueze's office hasn't changed, nor the man commanding it. Athrun remembers his lover once referring to the blond as _that creepy mask-guy_, but to the Aegis pilot the older man is a good commander, no more and no less. Certainly it would have been a considerable nuisance to be put under the command of someone like Eirhen or Yurgen.

"Commander Le Klueze," he says, salutes. Beside him Kira gives a polite bow, the respectful but not humble greeting of a civilian.

"At ease," the blond says, nodding at the two chairs in front his desk before sitting back in his own. "Now then, please enlighten me as to what occurred during your absence."

"Sir. During our travel to Atlantia we happened upon a battle; I regret I'm still not aware of the causes or participants. I communicated briefly with our side, and we were catapulted away from the site."

"You knowingly sacrificed our troops, I take it?" Le Klueze interjects.

"Yes, Sir," is the only answer Athrun can give. "Not many of them would have made it out in any case, so I believe it was the strategically correct decision."

"Quite true," the commander smiles. Kira squirms in his seat. "Go on."

"Yes, Sir. We ended up in the outskirts of the Debris Belt. After an estimated fifteen hours of drifting, the shuttle's main power systems broken beyond repair, we discovered, and simultaneously were discovered by, a ship that turned out to be the Archangel. It seems that was where they'd been hiding since our last battle against them." In which, unbelievably, he fought Kira. It's all he can do not to lean over and wrap his arms around the brunette. "Unable to communicate, they nevertheless took us in. However, as the shuttle was opened one of them fired at us. This was later revealed to be accidental, but at the time being I interpreted it as quite seriously meant and returned the attack. They were greatly understaffed and I made the mistake of underestimating them, leading to Kira having to warn me about an individual attempting to shoot me. This interference caused him to take a bullet in the leg, which, in turn, prompted me to take the captain hostage and work out a temporary non-aggression pact. One of the naturals needed a blood transfusion and, at Kira's insistence and in order to establish some goodwill after killing several of their men, I agreed to donate. Following this they attempted a drugged questioning but to little avail considering the circumstances." Breath. "They had been getting their supplies from Junius Seven."

"Oh?" Le Klueze almost-drawls. "That must have disgusted you."

"Yes, Sir, it did. However, the idea of starving to death did not greatly appeal to me either. That is why I agreed to pilot Strike and help out on one occasion. We were… interrupted… by a fight between some EA and some ZAFT vessels nearby. With Kira still on the ship and under rather definite threat, I followed the recommendation not to attack the EA. My original intention had been to wait until Kira had fully recovered, then for the two of us to liberate Strike and leave, but after a few EA survivors of fairly high rank boarded things took a different turn." He pauses for a moment, wondering if he'll be so lucky as to avoid further questioning about the battle. He does not plan on lying, doesn't think he could pull off fooling Le Klueze, but the notion of him fighting ZAFT is so ridiculous that it likely won't be brought up. Silence is gold. "The EA commander saw fit to threaten me and had his underlings play around a bit. They did not get very far before Kira got ahold of a pistol and shot the immediate offenders." He dares not look at the brunette, knows too well that he couldn't resist comforting him should he look like he needs it, equally aware that this is not the time nor the place. "Following that we got rid off the remaining new arrivals, during which the original Archangel crew stayed passive, and used the Gundam to leave."

"I see. And your conclusions?"

"It is an interesting ship. If put in the hands of someone who could properly handle it, the systems are quite promising. As for the naturals, they did not strike me as anything out of the ordinary. There's the undermanned crew, plus about a hundred civilians from Heliopolis – the only ones worthy of notion would be Mu La Flaga and Fllay Allister, daughter of the late politician Allister. I was made to understand that a number of the current crew members were recruited from the civilians, and even the captain is merely a subordinate whose superiors have met untimely ends. She was, however, a kind and competent person."

"And these special individuals, La Flaga and Ms Allister?"

"The lieutenant is competent, certainly, though perhaps not all he is cracked up to be. On the other hand I did not encounter him during circumstances that were favorable for him; he's famous for his skills with Zero, but nobody's ever claimed he's exceedingly adept at physical combat. As for the girl, she's frankly hysterical with grief." A cold way to dismiss her emotions, but the best that he can manage. He does not want to go into her accusations and acid tears; he doesn't want to sympathize, to have far too good an idea of how she feels.

"Very well. Then, about you, Yamato-kun – what is your current relationship to the Archangel and its crew?"

Through the corner of his eye Athrun sees Kira stare straight ahead as he says, calm and collected, "My association with any part of the EA is over."

"Is that so? I'm glad to hear it. However, I do not want to stress you or force any decision from you at this state; I remember quite well how adamantly you denied any offer to assist us previously. Just remain here for a bit, and time will tell. You may both go."

"Commander Le Klueze," they say in chorus, pay their respects, leave.

"Oh, dammit," Kira whispers as fast as they've rounded the corner, turning to lean his face against Athrun's shoulder, sighing in mixed contentment and distress as the blunette wraps his arms around him. "It's… very kind of him, and that's sort of disturbing because in a sense it would be so much easier if I was forced to make a final decision. I would do it, you know, I mean I guess I would join ZAFT if that was what I had to do – it's no worse than what I did for the EA, after all, and I can't stay close to you if I don't, can I?"

"Probably not in the long run," Athrun agrees. "Technically I could quit, but I'm a legal adult only so long as I'm part of the military and given that my father will probably be furious when he learns about you I'm not sure how we'd be able to support ourselves."

"I don't want to, though," Kira confides. "I don't want to be part of a war. He's right that it's silly to think such things at this point but I still don't want to be part of it."

"Of course you don't. You're too good for this. But, concerning what you said about the Archangel…?" It can't be nearly as simple as Kira made it out to be to Le Klueze.

"On the one hand I want nothing to do with them, detest them for everything that happened, even if it wasn't completely their fault they still made all those things happen to us, to you…!" He pauses, swallows. "And on the other I don't deserve for them to even want me to be associated with them because of what we, what I, did to them. I killed those people and it's just… It's just over. There's been too much blood under the bridge. I mean, I wish them all good but I wouldn't go out of my way to help them about it. We're… finished."

It is rather much like it was on the Archangel, after that. Oh, for Athrun it's a relief – he can _do_ things again, can accomplish something, and is surrounded by friendly, familiar faces. All right, "friendly" might be something of an overstatement when it comes to Yzak, but even the Duel pilot's agitation is familiar and comforting and as of late he's been unusually calm, hasn't once approached them willingly and is even civil to Kira, during what few minutes they've been in the same room.

But his own situation is only half the picture, and to Kira a ZAFT vessel provides no more sense of belonging than the Archangel did. It works, though; the tension is buried far below the surface and with Yzak absent and Nicol friendly and easy-going as per his habit, the integration is smoother than they had any right to expect.

This, of course, does not mean that he is at all positive about the little visit from the Council that is soon to come about. They engage in a brief, informal inspection every now and then, the politicians, and many delegates take the chance to see their children. Patrick Zala has rarely ever bothered to, for which Athrun has been both melancholy and grateful, but after the whole Archangel deal he can't very well refrain from coming. He'll want to see Le Klueze at least, and it would look too weird if he didn't spend some minimum of time with his son too.

Athrun does not know how much Mr Clyne or the commander has informed his father of, concerning his relationship with Kira, nor is he certain of what to say if the subject is broached. Thank god that the Clynes will be there as well – not that he wants to see them, particularly not his former fiancée, for it is a very uncomfortable thing to meet her guileless blue eyes knowing what a sinner you are, but she and her father will hopefully be able to act as a buffet between Kira and Patrick Zala's rage, should he find out something he doesn't like.

Well, at least there's still a good while before he'll arrive; he and the others are scheduled to come knocking at about two PM, two hours from now. Fortunate, that, since they haven't managed to get out of bed yet, much less make themselves presentable; between some very persistent EA fighters and repairs on several of their own units last night dragged out quite late. Athrun wasn't asleep until somewhen around four-thirty AM, and Kira didn't fare much better.

"You awake?" he mumbles now into the mop of chocolate-colored hair resting on his shoulder.

"Mmh. Guess we should get up."

"Yeah, nice as it is to sleep out…"

"C'mon then," Kira says, climbing out of bed.

Discontent with the sudden lack of warm weight against him, Athrun fights down a yawn and follows the brunette into the bathroom. It's comfortably warm in here, and the sight of Kira disrobing for the shower does wonders to wake him up. Obviously they are both tense about the approaching arrival of Patrick Zala, but two hours is a long time, at least in a nicely private bathroom.

Engaged in quite distracting pleasant activities, he dismisses the low creaking noise, barely distinguishable over the sounds from the running shower and the current cherished chaos of his mind; it isn't until his head turns sideways, pressed against the mostly-transparent wall, that he catches sight of the person that should most definitely not be here. Not for another hour at least, and even then preferably not in their bathroom – and especially not under present circumstances. _How not to come out to your murderous and homophobic father_, he thinks distractedly, staring in horrified denial at the man even as his body shudders with helpless release.

Taking a deep, steadying breath he straightens, offering Kira a grim smile; the brunette too has evidently noticed the forbidding figure glaring daggers at them. _Okay. This is it. We'll get through it._ So calm that it surprises even himself he turns the water off, brushes wet hair out of his face, wraps himself in a bathrobe, hands another one to Kira, then steps out of the shower stall and walks over to face his father, Kira standing uncertainly behind-beside him.

He doesn't bother dodging the punch; though perhaps undeserved it's definitely not unexpected, and the more and faster his father can vent some of his anger, the sooner he'll be something approaching reasonable. It's not the first time he's been hit, nor even the first time his face has aquatinted a fist, but Patrick Zala is quite considerably stronger than a natural or teammate, least at this close proximity, and he'd have fallen if Kira hadn't reflexively caught him. Trying to convince himself that the left half of his face is not one big throbbing pain, he dimly realizes that his father is about to continue the assault. Kira's arms, still supporting him, tense in clear affirmation that the brunette too has registered as much and is not going to quietly accept it and how the hell can Athrun prevent this from becoming a complete disaster and _thank god_ that the door glides open again to admit Mr Clyne who takes one look a the scene and places a hand on his furious co-worker's arm. Patrick Zala shakes it off but clearly calms, steps back a little.

"I have no authority over, nor any interest in, limiting the personal practices and relationships of our soldiers," he says, rather solemnly. "My son, however, does not do this sort of thing."

"I see," Athrun replies, surprising himself with the evenly though faintly spoken words; startlingly his father's statement hurts worse than the hit (he'd thought he was over that but apparently isn't) and he feels strangely light-headed, almost drugged. Too bad – or is it a blessing? – that he doesn't actually have a choice at all. He can't live, doesn't want to live, without Kira, and that's that. "Would you prefer I changed my name?"

"It is of no consequence to me," his father says, giving a hint of a shrug, face perfectly expressionless. "After all, you and I are not related in any way."

As Councilman Zala stalks away Athrun closes his eyes against unexpected tears and ignores whatever Mr Clyne's saying in favor of focusing on Kira still holding most of his weight, slender olive fingers sympathetically stroking his face.

xxxxx


	26. Upsy Daisy

**Aurora Borealis**

**Upsy Daisy**

Yzak seats himself Indian style on the bed, staring down at the mirror laid out in front of him on the coverlet. Old habits die hard, and they have a tendency to resurface in times of distress. He's engaged in this odd little quirk hundreds of times through his childhood, as a sort of distraction, a way of emptying out an overabundance of emotion. As a kid he could sit staring like this for hours, and apparently he still hasn't grown tired of the practice.

The light, the source of which embedded in the ceiling, creates fascinating, psychedelic patterns on the mirror's surface, reminiscent of the sights one might witness if one presses a fingertip against a closed eye. If he leans just a little further, his own reflection will gradually start intruding upon the firework of colorful sparks.

Sometimes he just looked at those colors, concentrating on using them as a medium for escapism so he could shut down memories he didn't want. At other occasions he studied his face, tracing with morbid fascination every line and bruise and cut. He had a lot of those as a child, both from wild play and… certain other incidents.

True, his mother threw his father out immediately after the man had first beaten him up, but it's considerably harder to cut off long-standing emotional bonds than to stay away from someone physically. And, believing both that children have a right to both their parents and that even children ought to be allowed and expected to make their own decisions for themselves, his mother always left it up to Yzak whether to have any contact with his father. For whatever stupid sentimental masochist reason he still does, every now and then, and she never says anything about it, merely cleans his cuts and calls the hospital when that's necessary.

And now… he knows, intellectually, that it's all psychological. Heck, he's in his older teens and an elite solider well versed in physical combat, whereas his father is a wasting man in his late forties with no training whatsoever. Technically, Yzak could beat him to a pulp without even breathing heavily afterwards. Unfortunately he also knows, emotionally, that he will do no such thing.

He can handle things as they are. His father abuses him, and while it's not _okay_ it's still normal. If the man did something truly outrageous Yzak would do something, probably, but… so long as it isn't worse than this it just isn't worth braving the well and truly conditioned mental blocks limiting his actions around his father.

_Yeah, come on_, he tells himself. _Big boys don't cry._

But they do, evidently, throw mirrors at walls in childish fury. It shatters with a sharp _clink_ and Yzak closes his eyes and swallows.

Worst of all is the fact that he isn't primarily upset about his father, though the situation with the man, prompted into his thoughts by the impending visit from the Council, has probably had its part in souring his mood. No, the real cause for his sullen irritation and gnawing self-pity is the fact that he's sitting on his own bed. _And that makes one for the list of things more pathetic than crying my eyes out in the shower._ He wanted to use Dearka's sleeping area but wouldn't let himself give in to the obvious weakness.

Now, after already having demonstrated his helpless childishness through breaking the mirror, he contemplates the other bed for a moment, pouting, before sneaking over to it. Dearka hasn't slept in it for what feels like a very long time, but somehow it's still very much his, and Yzak knows it isn't his imagination that the bedclothes still smell of his former roommate. After all, Dearka rarely bothered to wash them. With a low sigh he allows himself to collapse, buries his face in the pillow, snuggles into the coverlet like a baby in the womb.

When he's felt particularly emotionally sore, when loneliness and missing and cold have gotten the better of him, he has actually slept in it. Normally he forbids himself from straying into what used to be Dearka's half of the room, not intending to betray himself by forlornly touching the blond's old things, but the decision has often wavered, to the point when it's equally common for him to indulge as to scorn. Exactly eleven times, carefully counted, he has given in to the point of searching the bathroom for Dearka's left-over products and smearing thin layers of them on his own fingers so that the familiar smell will stay with him; four times he has spent the night in this bed instead of his own; five times he's slept in Dearka's clothes.

Letting out a shaky sigh he gradually pushes himself up; the Council delegates will be here soon, and he had better meet them in one of the public areas. After all, he is not overly interested in trying to explain why he and Dearka are no longer roommates.

The open, room-like space with the huge windows is as good a place as any to wait, and tensely he prepares himself to do just that, staring out into space.

Less than ten minutes later a familiar, under the circumstances unexpectedly bright and confident voice exclaims, "Yzak. Yo!"

Turning, he finds himself facing a rapidly approaching Dearka who waves at him and presents him with a big grin the exaltation of which does not quite manage to cover the underlying apprehension. Next second he finds himself hoisted up into the air, Dearka's hands a steadying warmth on his waist. "Upsy daisy!" the blond calls, twirling him around.

Breathless and startled Yzak lacks even the most rudimentary idea of what a proper reaction would constitute of. His hands fist themselves around Dearka's shoulder for support, but whether he clings so ardently because he wants to strangle the blond or because he wants to hug him he has no clue. Perhaps a little of both.

When Dearka finally lets him down he doesn't bother to step away, remains standing scant inches from the blond though it infuriates him that he has to tilt his head backwards to look the other in the face. "What the hell was that all about?" he inquires evenly.

Lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head in quite a sheepish fashion, Dearka replies, "Well, it's hard to put in words, really, but I guess I wanted to say that… I don't know, that we're okay, or I hope we can be okay. I… you're important to me, you know." His hinted smile is very uncertain.

"Is that so? Then again, I can't say I'm surprised to hear it. You always do talk a lot of shit, you know?"

"Wha? Yzak, what are you…?"

This has gone too far. If he wants to run because he wants so badly what Dearka might be offering that it'd hurt too badly not to get it, then the time for caution is over. One way or the other, this has to end. "You're not gay, remember?" he asks scathingly. "Well, I might have believed you before we fucked!"

The answer interrupting the brief quiet isn't of Dearka's making. Yzak isn't sure what he expected or even wanted the blond to say, only that he has to hear it, whatever it is, can't leave until he's listened, however much he might want to. And so he stands there immobile until suddenly there's a sharp _thunk_ over by the pseudo-doorway. With slow, shocked movements, he and Dearka both turn to stare in horror at the pair of Council delegates staring right back at them, they too pale and wide-eyed.

Mr Elthman's mouth works soundlessly; his formerly pristine pants are stained with coffee from where the mug lies broken at his feet.

"Hi, Dad," Dearka finally says, daring death.

Yzak's mother takes a breath and smoothes her skirt. "Come with me, please, Yzak," she says, for all appearances perfectly composed and greeting him with the same calm happiness as usual. "Good day, Mr Elthman, Dearka."

"Yes, Mother," Yzak replies with the same expressionless tone, one he has learned long ago but rarely uses. Before he goes, however, he tilts his face a few centimeters to the side, tells Dearka in a low, collected voice, "I'm allergic to daffodils."

It'll be his little test – his mother is brining him off ship briefly, for some kind of gathering, and he can hardly avoid meeting his father. This will hurt. It will hurt quite badly, and very probably land him in the hospital. In all likelihood they'll have to bring him to the closest one, not the one he normally frequents. There they will not know of his allergy, and so will probably adhere to PLANT custom and stuff his room with daffodils.

He follows his mother in silence.

xxxxx

Nicol turns in surprise as someone speaks his name. He's been tinkering with the Gundam systems for a while now and it isn't exactly fun, but he never would have believed he'd get bored enough to fall asleep and start seeing some strange dream. And a dream it has to be, because there is no way a beautiful female voice would say "Nicol" somewhere behind him in the machine hall on the ship. Then he turns to look, for he's faintly curious as to what his subconscious has come up with this time and it would be rude to ignore whoever it is, and realizes that the experience might be quite real.

Lacus Clyne waving and smiling at him might be an unexpected sight, but it is not an impossible one. Truth be told, he reminds himself acidly, it is a whole great lot more credible than most of his current dreams sequences.

"Clyne-san," he says, concluding that she isn't an illusion after all when the rest of the crew don't give him odd stares but simply continue to concentrate on her. Pushing the keyboard away he climbs out of the cockpit and lets himself down on the floor.

"Clyne-san," he repeats after approaching, stopping just barely far enough away to be able to give a respectful nod without knocking into her. Why did he step so close anyway? "What a pleasant surprise." Though they're true the words are such an abused cliché that he wants to kick himself even as they leave his mouth. They remind him of garden parties from his childhood, of playing on the smaller white piano that was normally situated in the living room on the first floor but had been moved outside for the occasion, of roses and sunshine and gentle winds. They smell of grass so fresh and bright that it hurts to look at it, and of sugar-drenched cakes and thick whipped cream. He always was a prodigy, and his parents liked to show him off as one. No, that comes out all wrong in his thoughts; it sounds like they used him, and while that might be partially true he also knows that they love him and would never have done it, had he not enjoyed the experience more often than not.

Certainly he was bored to death waiting on the grownups to finish their talks and actually start eating, especially with the tempting treats to close at hand and yet forbidden until the adults started digging in. Even then he was only allowed to eat a little, maybe six cookies over the course of an hour. Sometimes his mother let him stuff his face after the guests had departed, but it was still a trying experience.

Nor did he much like getting his cheeks pinched by elderly women telling him what a cute and nice little big boy he was.

He did, however, enjoy playing the piano in the always-lovely weather in the splendid garden. PLANT has never had a rainy spring or chilly summer; every day is metrologically perfect. Playing with the other children, and being cuddled by the less condescending adults, also made for pleasant memories.

What a pleasant surprise, not at all, you're quite welcome, the pleasure was all mine – that's the kind of phrases he learned to use. At the time he still didn't understand them as anything less than sincere and thus found them courteous and lovely. Later, when he grew older, he realized that imbued falsehood and took to detesting them, though he is still quite adept at using them. When he's confused they have a tendency to spill through.

"Nicol-san," she smiles, that eternal, seemingly unruffable and utterly sweet smile that he remembers so well. Not only from commercials and broadcasts, though it stuck in his memory even from that, but particularly from the occasion at which he visited her home with Athrun and Kira. She was kind and indulgent then too, despite what news they brought her; he isn't sure whether or not he ought to be surprised at that. It depends, he supposes, on what her feelings for Athrun are, and judging by what little he's seen those are benevolent but not passionate in any form or way. It's not unreasonable to speculate that she might even be glad that their engagement will never bear fruit.

So what will happen to her now? Is she to be married off to some other young man of fine family?

Nicol cannot imagine her wedding anyone she doesn't like, nor can he believe that her father would ever try and make her. Lacus Clyne is simply the kind of person for whom it is inconceivable not to live happily ever after. She is their guarantee that despite the war, despite Junius Seven, there's still goodness and happy endings abundant in the world. Through her mere existence she proves it, every second that sees her breathing is evidence that there's light – a universe capable of creating someone as utterly perfect as her couldn't be anything but good at the core. Everything dark in the world is transformed into something beautiful through her coming in contact with it – even Junius Seven and the war didn't succeed in corrupting her, instead she made beauty of it through her songs, through her miraculous hope for and belief in peace.

Athrun never saw that in her, Nicol knows.

"I hear that you are quite the musician," she says.

She is standing in the machine hall of a battle ship, surrounded by forbidding units and rough soldiers, a revelation of softness, of color, of brightness, and for the first time Nicol feels less than blindly admiring of Athrun. Obvious emotional stress and the affair with Kira didn't manage to lessen his dedicated infatuation, but somehow the idea that Athrun didn't notice the glorious loveliness that was his fiancée does.

"Not like you, Clyne-san," he says. "But yes, I do play."

Her smile blinds him like the sunrise never has. "Please call me Lacus," she says and at his uncertain, ludicrously grateful and probably blushing nod continues, "Then, would you join me in a song?"

"I'd be delighted," he breathes, and they walk together to his room, where he has explained that his piano is situated.

On the way they pass Yzak trailing behind his mother, expression so empty it doesn't look like more than a shadow of his normal face. He doesn't notice that Cly- that Lacus-san is a revelation either.

A minute or so later Patrick Zala brushes past them, not deigning to acknowledge their existence. He doesn't seem able to notice anything of beauty in the world right now so perhaps it's no surprise he doesn't appear to see Lacus-san.

"Oh," she says softly. "I suppose his meeting with Athrun-san did not go well, then."

"Indeed," Nicol agrees. Worry stabs at him suddenly, but the blunette ought to be all right, doesn't he? It's not like Patrick Zala would have really hurt him, and he has Kira there to pick up the pieces.

Nicol's own parents weren't able to come, and while he would have liked to spend more time with them than he currently does he's also grateful that they won't see him in these surroundings, see him as the solider he hasn't fully become even yet. Come to think of it, he's grateful that he _has_ parents, and especially such kind ones. He can barely imagine what it must be like for Athrun or Yzak.

"Here we are," he informs, pressing the appropriate button to open the door. "I apologize for the lacking accommodation."

"Not at all." She steps inside without hesitation, graces his living quarters with a fleeting glance before walking over to give the piano keys the lightest of caresses. They hum in response to her touch, not quite silent, not quite making a sound.

"Please," she says politely, gesturing for him to take a seat in front of the instrument.

"Is it really all right?" he asks.

"Of course," she replies, and he plays.

Talented he has always been, has made every melody he plays his own. He isn't sure how that will work now that he tries his hand at her songs – will they be his or hers or just ruined?

Then the tones spill out and he realizes that it's _their_ music.

"_I find myself where the stars fall_," she sings, and he takes quiet comfort in the thought that she's not alone there. Neither is he, right now.

xxxxx


	27. Daffodils

**Aurora Borealis**

**Daffodils**

"Dearka…" his father says, voice uncertain and hesitant. The man looks none too happy, but more shocked than upset. He takes a deep breath, coughs into his hand as though to gather his thoughts before saying, "We obviously need to talk."

For once Dearka keeps his mouth shut, though -sad as that might be, he really doesn't know his father well enough to predict the man's reactions and hence probably shouldn't blabber away. Especially not when he feels like being aggressive and defensive and isn't in a position to wreck things.

Unfortunately he can't quite concentrate on the situation at hand.

_Allergic to daffodils?_ he thinks instead. _What the heck? What did he mean?_

He is quite clear on the fact that he cannot afford another misunderstanding when it comes to Yzak. When he first returned he was so certain, so determined to fix everything, but the Duel pilot was exactly as angry and hurt as he hadn't wanted to expect, and then they were of course interrupted. _Oh damn, and here I even abandoned the Archangel in a hurry to search him out._

That worries him a little; she was a nice girl, that Miriallia, and he'd like to be sure that she gets along all right.

"Look," his father says now, pulling him from his thoughts. "Explain this to me. What's going on here, with you and…well. Are you," he struggles with the word, "Are you a homosexual?"

_Duh_, Dearka thinks. _You just heard Yzak say we fucked. That didn't clue you in?_

"Not sure," he replies with an honesty that startles himself. Then again, why not be truthful when lies will gain him nothing? "I seem to be Yzak-sexual, as of late."

His father closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, takes an additional deep breath – then, startlingly, fixes a resigned but not admonishing gaze on Dearka and places an awkward hand on his shoulder. "All right," he sighs, voice firming gradually as he speaks. "I can't say I'm happy about it but I also acknowledge that it's not my choice. Just… give me some time to get used to the idea. Okay?"

"Sure," Dearka says, too surprised and grateful to mind his wording. "Of course."

The elder Elthman departs almost immediately after that, leaving Dearka quite bored – he has no work waiting for him, and the others are all occupied. Athrun and Kira still aren't out of their room, and Dearka fancies he is quite capable of figuring out what they're doing in there. Even Nicol is busy, as evidenced by the muted song and music leaking out through his door. And Yzak, most unfortunately, has left and won't be back until tomorrow. There was a reason Dearka was in a hurry to find him before.

Sighing, he finally decides that he might as well get on with Buster. His father's reaction was a pleasant surprise; he wonders what Yzak's mother will have to say. He wouldn't spontaneously imagine her being very upset, but this hypothesis is somewhat contradicted by the other pilot's death-white face as he followed her. Well, he'll find out as fast as Yzak returns.

It feels like it takes a thousand years, but eventually the day ends. He goes to bed unusually early, subsequently curses the decision because he can't fall asleep for several hours. Eventually he must have managed, though, for he wakes tired and disoriented to the alarm. Struggling out of bed, his weariness nonetheless disintegrates rapidly as he remembers that he'll see Yzak today. Rather immediately, too, since he set the alarm to be in time for another brief lecture that they're all supposed to attend.

To his puzzlement and discontent, Yzak isn't there. This constitutes a majorly weird occurrence, as Dearka can't call to mind a single time when the Duel pilot has been less than perfectly punctual. He himself is early for once, at least for being him, but even after the others have dropped in as well Yzak still has not turned up.

All through Le Kleuze's briefing Dearka can think solely of the fact that his ex-roommate is missing, he stares at the chair Yzak usually claims and has to physically restrain himself from starting to bite his nails. It's worry without clear reason, but strong none the less, perhaps made keener by the profound lack of information.

"Where is he?" he asks Le Kleuze as fast as they're done. "Where's Yzak?"

"7th Memorial Hospital," the commander says quite calmly, not sounding overly concerned but with an underlying thread of seriousness that kicks Dearka's world out from under his feet. It is possible that Le Kleuze adds, "You may go visit him if you like," but it is also quite possible that he does not. What is certain is that Dearka takes off at top speed, headed for the hospital, heart pounding frantically in his chest. _Oh god what happened his father must have hurt him oh god oh god – _

Objectively speaking forty minutes isn't a very long time to get there, but it feels to him as though he's moving in slow motion until finally, finally, he's there and speeding towards the reception desk.

"Yzak Juhle," he pants at the nurse. "I need to see Yzak Juhle. Where is he?"

Directing a suspicious look at his uniform, she slowly replies, "Eight floor, room five-o-four."

If he had Buster here, he'd blast the stupid elevator to smithereens for being so slow. He's ready to scream long before it at last deposits him at the correct floor and he can make his way to Yzak's room. He starts out by gingerly edging the door open, not wanting to disturb the inhabitant should he be asleep, but the first brief glance at the contents of the room has him slamming it up so he can storm inside.

Yzak is sitting hunched over in the bed, coughing desperately, breathless, teary-eyed, obviously close to puking.

_I'm allergic to daffodils._

And the room is practically covered in the offensive yellow flowers, their scent lying thick in the air. There is no time at all to think or hesitate; gratefully letting instinct take over, Dearka rushes inside, grabs Yzak and half-drags, half-carries him to the window. When it won't come open he impatiently kicks it, glass exploding outwards. Cursing at the realization that the frame is littered with sharp fragments he leans over to pluck a pillow from the bed and places it over the glass. Then, _finally_, he can jostle a still desperately coughing and mostly limp Yzak partly outside.

The Duel pilot offers neither protest nor encouragement as Dearka hoists him and deposits him on the window-frame, letting his head and upper torso hang outside. Gradually, though achingly slowly, the coughing subsides, leaving Yzak white-faced, teary-eyed and sore-throated but breathing without serious interruptions. Having ascertained that his comrade can stand by himself Dearka retreats back inside to dump all the daffodils outside and employ some handy cleaning spray that someone's left in the corner.

When he turns back to the window he finds that Yzak has pushed himself back inside and is leaning weakly against the wall. "Help me back to bed," he says. It's not really a demand, nor truly asking. Dearka obediently loops an arm around the other's waist and escorts him the few steps needed to let Yzak gratefully collapse. Dearka sits down on the edge of the bed, narrowly avoiding crushing the Duel pilot's left leg. "Move, you big moron," Yzak protests, voice strained, hoarse and weak from the coughing but audible and understandable. It also reassures the blond that the speaker is all right, will be perfectly fine with just a bit of rest.

No longer needing to overly worry, he remembers to think, "Isn't anyone coming? I mean, first you're coughing yourself sick and then I break the window, and no one's turned up?"

Yzak shrugs weakly. "Low budget. No alarms." The last word is barely out of his mouth before a new fit wracks him, has him spasming helplessly with thick coughs.

Uncertain and anxious once more Dearka grabs hold of his shoulders, tries to steady him. "You sound like you're dying," he observes with very tense faux cheerfulness. "Anything I can do?"

"Sure, Captain Obvious," Yzak grounds out, placing a fingertip against Dearka's fronthead in a mockery of a gun. "Feel free to join me."

Thankfully the attack wears off comparatively soon, and Yzak reclines back against the remaining pillow, expression weary but not unhappy.

"You're allergic to daffodils," Dearka repeats. "How can you be allergic to daffodils? You're a Coordinator. We're not supposed to have allergies."

"You don't say," Yzak replies sarcastically. "I never knew." His expression thaws a little and he momentarily closes his eyes. "Actually, the reason I started disliking Athrun even before he showed me up was his mother's damn perfume that clung to him all the time. It was chemical so it didn't actually affect me, but the _smell_…!"

While Dearka smiles at the admission, two considerably less amusing things click in his mind. "One," he says, "you must have known you were going to end up in hospital, or there wouldn't have been any point to say you're allergic. Two, why the hell didn't you or your mother tell the staff not to bring flowers?"

Blue eyes flick uncomfortably around the room as Yzak shrugs. "My father was around. He didn't like me much before, and he really didn't like the idea of me being gay. It could hardly have ended any other way." He pauses, swallows, stares at his hands. "And the daffodils weren't really that much of a problem. You took care of them, didn't you?"

"You couldn't have known that I'd be in time," Dearka argues. "What the hell were you doing? Trying to kill yourself? Why didn't you just inform the nurse?"

Yzak continues to stare for a moment longer at his suddenly fisted hands before raising his eyes to Dearka's with obvious reluctance. He speaks as though the words taste sour, like they're a shot – painful but necessary. "I guess I wanted to be saved, then."

It takes a moment for that to sink in, to realize that Yzak's offering the both of them another chance, and another long moment for the blinding happiness and relief to clear sufficiently to allow him to act. With infinite gentleness he gathers Yzak in his arms, ignoring the other's grumbling as he's moved. "Prince on white horse reporting for duty." He isn't sure how much of that is serious, how much is joke.

"Fuck off," Yzak replies rather contentedly, leaning against him.

Dearka buries his responding smile in silvery hair before growing tenser again, embrace hardening subconsciously. "But your father," he says, soft but firm. "You can't let him continue doing this."

"He is no longer a problem," Yzak surprises him by replying, quite calm and just as firm as Dearka though a tad strained as well. "He said some… particularly bothersome… things yesterday. I snapped, I guess. He's ten rooms down."

"Oh," Dearka says stupidly. "Well then." And it is good. Not that he's generally positive to the idea of sons beating their fathers up, but in this case he's quite glad to hear it. He doesn't need to ask about the "particularly bothersome things" – if Yzak wants to tell him, then Yzak will tell him, and if Yzak doesn't want to tell him, then he won't and things will be fine either way.

Right now it is quite enough to sit here on the hospital bed, left shoulder acting as pillow for Yzak.

An hour or so later one of the nurses comes to check on her patient and is suitably upset at the state of the room. She and Dearka escort Yzak to the closest unoccupied room, fortunately one without any horrific yellow blossoms.

"I'll be back onboard tomorrow," Yzak says. "You should probably go there now."

"Probably," Dearka agrees, pressing a kiss to the half-asleep Yzak's brow before leaving.

xxxxx

Returning to ZAFT is almost always a positive experience for Yzak, or at the very least a less negative one, and today is no exception. Given, his throat still feels like shit after all that coughing, and a fuzzy headache is brewing in the back of his head, but his mood is unusually sunny; he even surprises one of the subordinates by waving a smiling greeting instead of just sneeringly ignoring the man as per his habit. His muscles are aching from the fits yesterday but he's well used to physical aches and the cause for most of them will never trouble him again. He will not seek his father out again, and well, should they happen to meet, the man still will not pose a problem. He really shouldn't have said what he did yesterday – then again, Yzak is somewhat grateful that he did, for, though he didn't _seriously_ believe that his father would do _that_, the threat was enough to force him into action, and he's won at last over his childhood fear.

And while his stomach's churning and burning and tingling at the prospect, seeing Dearka is an anticipated event. After all, he did acknowledge yesterday that he… okay, deep breath, he might as well be up-front at admit it straight out: he's in love with Dearka. Quite badly.

Unfortunately he arrives in a ship seemingly deserted by pilots, and, having made his way to the bridge, he finds only the Captain, who reports that Le Kleuze has been called away to see certain politicians from the Council, and Yzak's comrades are out in their Gundams fighting; this ship to is to heed there and help out, only waited on the Duel pilot.

The Duel pilot who, unfortunately, will probably not pilot anything at all for the next while, since the stuffy air aboard sets his coughing off again. The personnel's looks rage from startled to worried as he abruptly bends over and places a hand on the wall for support, his entire body shaking with the force of the coughs. He can't breathe properly, is still impaired from inhaling so much flower-tainted air yesterday.

Pride and duty aside, he'd have to be a complete idiot to think he could be of any use in this condition. Instead of storming off to launch he therefore makes himself semi-comfortable and prepares to watch the battle in unaccustomed and strongly disliked but unfortunately currently necessary passivity.

Staying true to that is suddenly so very much more difficult as they arrive and he abruptly realizes that this does not look good at all for his comrades.

Sure, all three of them are competent (well, that's arguable in Nicol's case but never mind, even the Blitz pilot is an ace compared to mostly every natural) and their mobile suits are the very best, but apparently the odds can still be against them.

Suddenly three instead of the accustomed four, without Le Kleuze's sparse but efficient directions, and against this unexpected mass of enemy units – no, Yzak can't be certain at all that all of them will make it.

He stands up abruptly, fully intending to sortie Duel, allergy be damned, only to find himself once more at the mercy of an intense coughing fit that leaves his legs shaky and his eyes sticky with involuntary tears. _Oh shit, oh fucking bloody hell._

Because there's nothing he can do, abso-fucking-lutely nothing, and his team (_Dearka!_) is in imminent danger and the ship contains two sodding unused Gundams and not a single pilot to make use of them and –

No. Wait just a damn minute here.

A slow grin curves his lips – all right, so it's established that Yzak can't pilot, but why yes indeed, there's someone else who can.

He sure as hell doesn't like Kira Yamato, but if the other could hold his own against all of them with Strike, unprepared and scared, then regardless of luck and Athrun not fighting quite seriously – regardless of that Kira Yamato is obviously exactly what Yzak needs.

He stomps away as fast as he can, his rush to Athrun's room interrupted by no less than four coughing fits. Finally, feeling just a tad trembly, he reaches the locked door and starts punching in possible pass words to have it open. Third time's the charm, and the door whooshes open to reveal a surprised Kira Yamato sitting curled up on the bed.

"Get up," Yzak orders him. "Come with me."

"What?" Kira asks uncertainly, "What's going on? What do you want with me?"

There's no fucking time for this, not for explanaing and especially not for coughing, but the last isn't known to listen to him and a new fit has him clinging to the doorframe. When he manages to straighten up again and can wipe the tears from his bleary eyes Yamato is standing hesitantly in the middle of the room.

"Come _on_," Yzak urges, and the other obediently though with obvious uncertainty follows him out into the corridor and towards the machine hall. "You know the others are fighting, right?" He barely waits for the brunette's nod before continuing, "They're not doing too well and need help, and I," he coughs again, illustrating his point rather clearly.

Of course Yamato won't hesitate to do anything to help his beloved Athrun, and that'll be enough to save Dearka's and Nicol's hides as well.

"But they put lock-codes on Strike's systems," is the brunette's only protest, amethyst eyes wide and worried. "Do you know the pass words for them?"

Okay, so he doesn't. But, though he grimaces at having anyone else use it, "I know the passwords for Duel."

"Oh," Kira says. "Of course."

They're in the machine hall by now and Yzak drags the brunette past busy but staring mechanics, throws a helmet at him to put on while Yzak unlocks his Gundam's systems – then it's done and he makes way to let Yamato slip into the cockpit, and next second Duel launches.

Yzak slowly makes his way back to the bridge to observe the rest of the battle, which goes smoothly now with another Gundam to aid them. One elite pilot in a likewise elite unit makes a whole lot of difference, and it's no longer even a question of who will win.

Half an hour later his comrades and Kira return, and Yzak leaves the bridge to go meet them – well, to go meet Dearka, at least.

He finds the other pilot in the corridor just outside what used to be their room, where the blond is standing around dabbing ineffectively at a freely bleeding gash on his forehead. Purple eyes immediately focus on the arriving Duel pilot, however.

"Get in," Yzak offers, nodding towards the room. Dearka raises an eyebrow, which causes a new thick line of blood to trickle down his face, then enters and seats himself on his old bed while Yzak digs around in the med kit for some gauze and maybe some antiseptics. "Here."

"I'm surprised you let Yamato out in Duel." Dearka takes the items handed to him, but only to lay them down on the bed beside him, free hands grabbing hold of Yzak's instead and clinging to them until their fingers are intertwined and sticky with blood.

Yzak shrugs. "Yeah, well."

They stare at each other in loaded silence for quite a while before one of them finally caves, taking the other with him.

"I love you, you big idiot."

xxxxx


	28. Where the Stars Fall

**Aurora Borealis**

**Where the Stars Fall**

It was never really supposed to be like this, was it?

Kira Yamato, Coordinator child of two pacifist naturals, raised in neutral country, then dragged into the war on the EA's side – who would have expected him to be sitting quite comfortably on a bed (_his_ bed, as much as anyone else's) in a ZAFT war vessel in outer space?

Nobody, probably, but such is the case with most things in life, so that's not so strange.

And now he is here, and fairly content with this. Things are fine, mostly.

He has people whom he has had to reluctantly leave behind, though. His parents, for one.

Hopefully they managed to get onto one of the emergency shuttles. As far as he's heard, almost everyone did. Then again he knows quite well how dangerous it is to make hopeful assumptions.

A low sigh escapes his lips, almost melancholy in its lightness. If they did not get away one must assume that they did not make it, and if such is the case – well, he'll grieve, obviously, but ultimately there is nothing at all that he can actually do. At most he might try and arrange for a proper gravestone, some kind of delayed symbolic burial. That sort of thing is quite depressingly usual in PLANT; there is an entire graveyard dedicated solely to the victims of Junius Seven. It's a large one, too. It kind of has to be, in order to fit more than two hundred thousand identical and humbly dignified gray stone markings.

From what Athrun's said about it, Kira feels more familiar with the place than is strictly comfortable when he remembers that it's disturbing to be associated with graveyards; the majority of the time he's just relived to be able to ease the blunette's sorrow a little by sharing, however inadequately. He can practically feel himself walking past the lush green grass, good soil apparently for headstones growing in perfectly straight rows, can feel the setting sun on his shoulders, the slight weight and floral smell of a bouquet in his hand, the mild strain in his knees as he crouches and gently places the blossoms before the one particular, identical stone he'd recognize anywhere.

He might do that for his parents, should they have passed away. He might, also like his lover, set out on a rather undefined quest for revenge, try to achieve vengeance and justice and assure that such a thing will never happen again. It might be the emotionally correct response, but he's seen what it's done to others and isn't eager to try his luck. That revenge just brings more hurt is only easy to say so long as you aren't the one needing avenging, but he objectively believes in the general sentiment and rather naively hopes that he'll be able to cling to it in the future too.

_But if Athrun were to be killed_…

_Then_ other people _aren't whom I'd kill_, Kira answers his unnerved and nagging subconscious.

Plus, when it comes to the hypothetical question of seeking revenge on behalf of his parents, the issue is complicated by the uncertainty as to who should be considered guilty. ZAFT and EA both had their hand in ruining Heliopolis, and whereas it was the Coordinator military that attacked, the contract between Orb and the EA didn't leave them much choice.

Quite frankly, he has to admit, at this point it is inconceivable for him to make himself the enemy of ZAFT, for several important reasons, all of which are completely unrelated to Heliopolis and his parents. The only option left is to turn against the EA, but then that would be because of convenience rather than true conviction, thus it would be cowardice and falsity to label the quest righteous (if that word can ever be applied in this context) vengeance.

If he were to fight the EA, it would be because he is a solider and wants the war to end. It seems rather clear that that will only happen once one of the two opposing sides has been completely defeated, and ZAFT has the better chance of winning. The nicer government, too, and is more right than the EA when comparing reasons for the war. Most importantly, the one deciding feature – Athrun is part of it, and that inevitably and automatically means that to a certain degree Kira is too, whether he wants to or not.

That does not make it right or appealing, but he supposes that it does make it merely a question of time before he officially enlists. The idea is unwelcome, but far less so than the thought of being even temporarily separated from Athrun.

With some luck, though, he will not have to worry about what to do about dead parents for a long time to come. In all likelihood the both of them got away safely and thus ought to be back in Orb proper by now. They will be all right there. Tense as the entire world currently is, Orb is one of the safest places to be, without war or starvation or even any true intrusion on normal life.

They'll make friends with the neighbors, and with the other employees at their new works, and fit in, go on with their lives. They will miss him, and he will… always look back on them fondly and with a touch of regret. The distance between them was too large, in the end. Kira hasn't used to think that one's being a natural or a Coordinator matters very much, hasn't ever wanted to believe that, but his parents certainly did. Underneath the mild, weary smiles lay always a creeping tension and humility.

And, while this makes him vaguely sad until he shrugs it off, having things more deserving of his grief, such as his lost innocence of which this is only a little part – during his interaction with both naturals and Coordinators before and after the war, it has become slowly but undeniably evident that the only people comfortable around him are others of his own kind. Being more talented than others in one or two areas is one thing, but when one is so ridiculously superior in every aspect… Though one can certainly care for them, is it possible to treat retarded people as equals?

Oh, not that naturals are retarded, in the clinical sense of the word – it's just that a Coordinator is so vastly improved that they might as well have been. The distinction is somewhat fleeting, the very best naturals actually surpassing the worst Coordinators in the formers' areas of expertise, but the difference is there and it's irrevocable.

Naturals his own age he could never fit in with – they could not treat him as an equal, nor he them, because when push comes to show they aren't equal. A prepubescent Coordinator's intellect vastly and effortlessly surpasses that of any intelligent adult natural; the same child could, with the smallest of hardships, beat the trained grown-up in physical combat. Their worth might be equal, but their abilities plainly aren't.

So his own age group is a lost cause, and the adult naturals are even worse. Custom and pride dictate that they be shown respect, that they be better, and they just aren't.

Kira wishes that all of this could be overlooked, that they could all live in peace and harmony together. At the same time, no matter how he hates how prejudiced he sounds, he knows which company he prefers.

Even so the Archangel crew sort of fits the description of people has he reluctantly left behind, too. What he told Athrun earlier is true, he is no longer part of them, is one of them even less than he is one of ZAFT, but they were important to him and they tried, and he took it upon himself to approach Dearka and ask about them after the Buster pilot had returned from his quest aboard the EA ship. The blond, who was friendlier and more distracted than Kira had been led to believe, reported that the naturals were fine, considering. Apparently Fllay is still not remotely recovered, but if she allows Miriallia to calm her down she's moving in the right direction. It seems La Flaga and the captain are hitting it off, and from what the Duel pilot said Kira gathers that Miriallia made quite the impression on Dearka. "What a girl," the blond smiled, something a little reminiscent of awe in his tone. "If I weren't out of the closet and she didn't have a boyfriend… well."

In other words, the Archangel people are doing all right on their own and will, as far as he's been informed, be able to continue like that; ZAFT does indeed treat prisoners well, and the civilians aren't even considered prisoners but will be allowed, even assisted, to return to Orb as fast as they've been examined and identified.

All of which leaves Kira here, sprawled on the bed he shares with Athrun. His lover is out fighting along with Nicol and Dearka. When the blunette isn't around to accompany him they prefer him to stay in the room, the lock-codes on which are advanced enough that he might actually have a bit of trouble trying to break them from the inside. Not that he's been foolish enough to attempt to; he can do mostly what he wants the rest of the time, and it's not like he's exactly a prisoner, nor like he could expect them to let him run around on his own, given his past and the fact that he hasn't de facto joined ZAFT.

Yesterday was bad but not a disaster. Athrun's father is a stuck-up prick, but fortunately he's out of the picture now, and seeing the Clynes again was nice. Mr Clyne was calm and supportive, and Lacus-san was her usual kind self. Her and Nicol's music was welcome background to Athrun smiling through unshed tears, tangling a needy/affectionate hand in Kira's hair, unfolding beneath him.

Still, Kira rather prefers even the unpleasant parts of the previous day over his current situation – at least then he was a participant, could act and help out, knew what was going on, and however uncomfortable things were no one's life was in true danger. _This_, this sitting around uninformed and waiting and achingly aware that, though the possibility is small, Athrun could get hurt, _really_ hurt – this he hates. Crying and longing and killing on the Archangel was purgatory; this gnawing, freezing helplessness and anticipation is hell.

Reason says Athrun ought to be back safe and sound anytime now, but, again, Kira is far too well aware of how dangerous it is to rely on hope, and the blunette has been gone for rather a long while by now. Increasing worry gradually transforming into a nagging feeling of unrest and nausea, he curls up on the bed, hugging his legs to his chest. It's not the first time Athrun has had to leave for battle, but instead of growing used to the occurrence Kira is more disturbed by it every time.

Then, at last, oh thank god, the door swishes open to reveal a familiar red uniform worn by… Yzak Juhle?

He's seen the pale youth before, of course, sees him everyday though their actual interaction is sparse but polite, but nothing has prepared him for suddenly finding an agitated Duel pilot standing in his doorway.

"Get up," Yzak orders him. "Come with me."

"What?" Kira asks uncertainly, "What's going on? What do you want with me?"

Yzak opens his mouth, presumably to answer, but before he is able to an expression of annoyance and resignation flitters over his pallid features and next second he's clinging to the doorframe for dear life, shaking with coughs.

Moving on instinct, Kira is up and approaching him before he has time to think about it. Coordinators generally aren't supposed to get sick, but this sounds fairly serious and he needs to help – then he stops uncertainly in the middle of the room as he remembers that though not aggressive, Yzak has hardly been welcoming either and probably wouldn't take kindly to unasked-for assistance. Kira would have tried his best to aid him anyway, had the fit not blown over by then, allowing a bleary Yzak to straighten up again. "Come _on_," he urges, turning on his heel and obviously expecting Kira to follow. Alerted by the unexpected visit, the brunette does, and the Duel pilot continues, "You know the others are fighting, right?"

Kira dips his head in anxious acknowledgement, fear clenching his hands at his sides, and the other continues, "They're not doing too well and need help, and I –"

– _neither can nor need to say anything further, because you're coughing badly again,_ Kira silently fills in. No, it is quite clear that Yzak can't aid them; it is equally clear that they've both reached the conclusion that Kira will do it instead.

"But they put lock-codes on Strike's systems," the brunette abruptly remembers. If Athrun and the others are in sufficient trouble for Yzak to come and get him, then they certainly don't have time to try and unravel those. But perhaps Yzak knows the passwords? He almost has to, since he's fetched Kira.

For a moment he hopes that the grimace fluttering over the paler boy's features is merely a suppressed cough and not denial of this hopeful conclusion, but realizes that that's foolishness, Yzak's eyes spell that out quite clearly, and Kira thinks he'll choke on his fear before his companion grimly replies, "I know the passwords for Duel."

"Oh," Kira says, and the sound is almost a sigh, relief washing over him. "Of course." Naturally the other knows them, and apparently he'll let Kira use his Gundam, and the brunette has the mad impulse to throw his arms around the grumpy pretty boy.

The machine hall, he notes once more, features an almost uncanny resemblance to that of the Archangel. It's certainly a bit better filled out, though, both when it comes to units and mechanics. Several of the latter stare at them as they brush past, but however eloquent the startled and suspicious glances are, no one speaks aloud. One does not, Kira has amusedly learnt, question Yzak Juhle when his brow is wrinkled. The boy might be just a boy, and might currently additionally be red-eyed and out-of-breath from his coughing and dragging a sort-of-prisoner with him towards one of the most advanced weapons history knows, but all of that is secondary. Nobody who values his life argues with the hot-tempered elite, and that's that. Le Klueze might have a chance, Athrun would survive the experience, and Dearka has some crazy talent for it, but even the captain simply bows down rather than takes an argument. Kira can't blame him; Yzak is equally competent and insufferable.

Now he grabs a convenient helmet and throws it at Kira, whose hands snap out on reflex to catch it, then leans into the opened cockpit, pale slender fingers dancing like lightning over the keyboards. Nodding a little, he steps back and allows Kira to take place.

The second he's seated he scans the systems, finds them mostly similar to Strike's and considerably better kept than the other unit's were when he first used them. This will work, then, he can assure himself.

Exploding out into space is so familiar it's almost comforting. No matter how much he hates fighting, waiting in helplessness and fear is worse.

"Yzak!" Dearka's voice snaps through the communication link, tone so worried it becomes an accusation.

"This is Kira Yamato," the brunette replies, hears more than one shocked inhalation from the others.

"What…" Athrun begins.

"…are you doing in Duel?" Dearka finishes.

"Yzak-san sent me out to save your buts," Kira clarifies, is answered by a snort and a chuckle.

He fulfils the lightly worded expectation. Disgusting as that used to be to even consider, he has grown to accept that he is very good at fighting. All his life he's been more than adept at practically everything, but for this he has a real knack.

When they return onboard a little less than thirty minutes later he's calmer than he expected to be. He is ZAFT now, in action if not yet in thought, and while that's never been in his plans for the future he has long since recognized the necessity. He'll have to talk to Commander Le Klueze when the blond comes back, he supposes, but it'll probably go smoothly.

For now he is quite content to return Dearka's wave and Nicol's nod before wandering off with Athrun. Funny how the room doesn't seem stuffy or jail-like anymore when the blunette's in it along with him.

They spend the next few hours like they spend the majority of their free time, curled up together, touching and talking languidly.

"What about the future?" Athrun asks softly at one point, pressing a kiss to Kira's cheek. "What's in store for us after the war?"

"Well," Kira contemplates, smiling, "I always did want a lot of children…"

xxxxx


	29. Fields of Hope

**Aurora Borealis**

**Fields of Hope**

It's very simple, suddenly.

They hand him a thin vanilla folder, assuring him just a tad impatiently that, yes, it does contain everything he will need, and if he has any questions he's welcome to stop by again or contact them by phone or mail, and yes, the number and address are in there too.

The war is over.

In the new-old world that is peace Sai has been let go, has been told that the restrictions previously placed on his activities are lifted – he's so free that it's almost frightening. There's no more duty, no more death.

It's over.

Life is ready to begin again.

And maybe it will never be quite as thrilling as it was, maybe the sun will never again shine so brightly or so gloriously as it did after you'd just escaped death, maybe you'll never feel your blood spill over with adrenaline ever again.

And perhaps the fear will cling, and the regret and grief, perhaps your hands will always feel sticky and crusty with blood from handling the controls aboard a warship, perhaps you'll always be obsessed with having control because you know oh so well what it feels like to lose it.

And maybe you've been a prisoner for months now and grown kind of used to that and now suddenly you're free to see the earth lying in ruins.

….Or maybe that's just silly. Truth, certainly, but not the only truth and not the one he wants to focus on right now.

The image of the slain Ensign Badguriel will be with him always, accompanied by scenarios of battle and death in space, of crying, hungry, lonely children trapped as hopelessly as was he in the war that had come to claim and ruin their home and their lives. He can't go back. Forward is still possible, though, painful and promising and possible.

Sai hasn't ever been unrealistic in his hopes, but neither has he ever been one to back down from a challenge. He'll pick up the pieces, and he'll fucking glue them back together if need be, and things will be okay.

With all the horror in between it's tempting to paint out his pre-war life in shades of perfect, but he knows that's just a trick he plays on himself. Life isn't idyllic, it never was, it never will be, and he doesn't need it to be. 'Okay' will do just fine.

When they first arrived in PLANT, after the tense waiting on the Archangel following Kira's disappearance, he didn't know what to expect. None of them did, not even the officers. To his relief, it almost vexed him, actually, because it was so anticlimactic it just wasn't believable, he was treated like a child. For the very first time since war had come to Heliopolis he was not a solider, not a young man, not a bright student who should deal with things, take responsibility. Instead he was regarded as only a kid, a poor stupid natural boy who could do no better.

The actual EA personal, what little there was of it after the catastrophe outside his former home and them standing in the front row when Athrun attacked, was kept in more prison-like surroundings; now they're being exchanged. The civilians were sent home as fast as Orb had been contacted and a route set up.

Sai and the others who weren't properly guilty nor properly innocent were placed in normal, trusted Coordinator families under firm but not harsh restrictions.

Save the strict rules and the fact that everything here is made for superior people, that he couldn't drive their car until they'd had him long enough to trust him and think it worth the cost to fix it so he could pick the younger kids up at their day-care center, it was absurdly much like being a regular exchange-student.

Tolle and Miriallia were treated similarly well and they're still around, but if he had to choose then Sai would be forced to say that the one he considers his best friend is the eldest son of the family he stayed with. Still sort of stays with, actually – his not-really-sibling is going to college next fall, and chose one open to both Coordinators and naturals so they'll be able to share a room.

_My life is like coffee_, he thinks suddenly and absurdly. _Bitter and black but makes you feel better._

Orb's destroyed, doesn't even really exist anymore.

Fllay's dead.

She was never able to fit in, not on the Archangel, not after. Because of her heritage she was treated differently, but apparently she wasn't much use in the political games for they sent her to a family fairly shortly, but she couldn't cope. The counseling didn't help.

She's dead and Sai's sad but not overly so. He loved her, he did, but he somewhat hated himself for that. It made him feel so inadequate and pathetic and shallow.

Kira and Athrun figure in the papers quite often. "We were in the war," he has heard them say. "We did our part there, so it's only fair that we help rebuild, become part of the peace now."

They are quite important now, war heroes the both of them, highly competent, and Athrun's inherited a veritable fortune. Sai hasn't been to see them, hasn't called or tried to find any means to contact the brunette boy that was once his friend but whom he now only watches every now and then on the news.

A few weeks ago the papers had two other young men on the front pages who spent the war in red suits. These two were featured because of the scandal-value; everyone knows Kira and Athrun are a couple, but they haven't ever been photographed making out that heavily. The one Sai recognizes as Councilwoman Juhle's son has arms and legs wrapped around the one Miriallia identified as Dearka Elthman. They look happy.

The blond actually waved at Miriallia once when they passed each other. Sai isn't sure what to think about that, if he is required to have an opinion at all.

Over everything is Lacus Clyne. Her picture is on every wall, her voice lies like a fairy-mist in the air. She's beautiful and kind and growing more special than she was on the Archangel.

There's been speculation that she'll marry the new rising star in politics, that man called Dullindal, but Sai's seen how she and the green-haired youth who plays piano while she sings look at each other and quietly doubts that the marriage will ever come about.

One evening, just a day before he and his friend will leave for college, Sai catches sight of a familiar back in the park.

He could call a greeting, he could wave, he could walk over.

He turns quietly and walks away.

xxxxx


	30. Post Epilogue Crack Cookie

**Aurora Borealis**

**Post-Epilogue Crack-Cookie**

**Patrick Zala**: Well. That was, like, the suckiest ending _evah_. Did I get to fire my Beloved and Very Pretty Genesis Destroyer of Worlds or not? And before anyone says anything, no, I'm not going through a midlife crisis and, _no_, Genesis is _not_ a phallic symbol, no matter what you think you know of Freudian psychology! Even it if were, it's not overcompensating. Really. Besides, why was there no mention of what _I_ did after the war?

**Athrun:** Cause, since it's explicitly stated that I inherited, you kicked the bucket.

**Patrick Zala:** What! You bitch!

**Kira**: Hey, what the hell are you calling him? Athrun's _my_ bitch! You are _so_ lucky I didn't beat the living shit out of you when you assaulted us in the bathroom!

**Patrick Zala:** As if that experience wasn't traumatic enough as it was! Well, it explains why I didn't use Genesis all the time; after I had to poke my eyes out with a teaspoon it got harder to aim. I mean, if it had at least been Yzak in that shower…

**Yzak:** What the fuck? That's probably the most disgusting thing I've ever heard! Seriously, I have it in for all the Zalas, but at least Athrun's hot without a shirt on!

**Kira, Athrun, Dearka:** What!

**Yzak:** Well, could any of you stand looking at him _in_ that horrid yellow thing?

**Kira:** I must concede, that's a damn good point. Luckily that's not a problem anymore since I and Athrun are going steady now.

**Athrun:** Because you love me for my personality and don't care what I look like, right?

**Kira:** More like "because from now on I will give you careful instructions regarding what you are allowed to wear", actually.

**Athrun:** Oh. Okay. Still, now that we're here and all – that thing you said about…um…babies… You _were_ only kidding, _right_?

**Kira:** Huh? What makes you think that?

**Athrun:** And who do you imagine is going to carry them?

**Kira:** Well, I doubt this will be allowed to become MPreg, but for the sake of speculating… in the beginning it seemed clear that I was the uke, but then after your father bitched you around it was hinted that I was actually seme… I'm not sure. I do know for a fact, however, that there exists a scrapped scene in which you prance around on the Archangel dressed in one of those short-skirted pink uniforms.

**Yzak:** Believe you me, Zala, you will _never_ live this down!

**Athrun:** Like you're one to talk, or have we forgotten that you waltz around in make-up? And that was _after_ the idea of you going on a date with Dearka dressed up as a girl and running into Nicol and Patrick Zala was scrapped.

**Patrick Zala:** Now _that's_ the kind of image I'd like to see! Why wasn't I allowed to savor it? Why!

**Yzak:** Um, because you poked your eyes out with a teaspoon?

**Patrick Zala:** Oh. Right. Well, you can hardly blame me – what would you have done if you'd walked in on someone in the shower?

**Yzak:** Er… I mean… that is to say… Change of subject! Now!

**Dearka:** But Yzak! Are you denying our love?

**Yzak:** What love?

**Dearka:** The one you declared for me after Kira saved my ass?

**Yzak:** We both know it was you who was supposed to say that.

**Dearka:** Well, yeah, but it sure as hell sounds like it's you. Wait – are you saying you don't love me?

**Yzak:** You utter bastard! You think I'd've slept with you if I didn't?

**Dearka:** Speaking from personal experience, well, yeah.

**Yzak:** You. Will. DIE!

**Le Klueze:** Ooh, catfight! Now where's my camera?

**Patrick Zala:** Sell me a copy, will you?

**Athrun:** Shut up, Dad. Commander, um, how can I say this… What the heck are you doing!

**Le Klueze: **Aren't you supposed to be the smart one? Can't you tell I'm taping?

**Athrun:** I've watched too much Destiny lately – sitting around in Gundams containing their own nuclear power plants without any protective suits seems to have robbed both me and Kira of all our higher brain functions. Still, that fortunately didn't happen in this universe, so I apologize and rephrase – _why_ the heck are you doing that?

**Le Klueze:** Well, being a clone and all I've gone EMO and started doing drugs, and let me tell you, that sweet shit ain't cheap. Fortunately my old pal Dullindal has an addiction of a different kind, and –

**Kira:** The new prospective Supreme Chairman is an addict?

**Yzak:** Oh, don't worry, he doesn't drink or anything.

**Athrun:** Yeah, he just hits on everything that moves. And I do mean everything. Even Haro isn't safe around him. And to think that that filthy sex addict was my first kiss!

**Kira, Rey:** What. The. HELL!

**Kira:** Dullindal, you're dead! And who the fuck are you, Blondie?

**Rey:** One of the Destiny characters. You know, one of the ones who were callously ignored because Aurora went AU already after episode ten. We _so_ need a sequel.

**Le Klueze:** Hell yeah. Since I'm not dead in this universe (am I?) I don't wanna miss the opportunity to meet up with Dullindal and cash in. I'm sure he'll pay a pretty penny for these nice little footages taped by the spy cameras I had fixed into the showers and bedrooms onboard.

**Athrun:** Gross. Look, I always did think you were coming on to me, but this is just sick.

**Le Klueze:** Well, what the hell did you expect? I was practically the only one who didn't get any. Even dear Mu hooked up with some woman. By the way, was he like the only straight guy in the entire Aurora?

**Sai:** I would mention myself, but not only am I ugly and therefore mostly ignored, there were also all these hints about me and the unnamed Coordinator boy I was gonna be roomies with. And let's face it, was there _anyone_ in Aurora who shared rooms and _didn't_ get involved?

**Miriallia:** Um… Fllay and I?

**Sai:** True, but when all's said and done this is a Gundam fanfic, which inevitably means that all female characters are completely detestable and ultimately ignored in favor of hot steamy yaoi. Plus Fllay was _my_ girlfriend, and you're going out with Tolle – you wouldn't have cheated on us, would you?

**Miriallia:** You think I'd stay faithful to a guy who actually believes that eating butter will make you a Coordinator?

**Tolle:** Butter nice. Me like butter. Oh, what the hell, I'm turned into some kind of complete idiot in this damn 'fic! Plus the whole butter thingy wasn't even the author's own idea but one provided and demanded by her little brother! I feel so humiliated! And anyway, Sai, why are you surprised? Not like Fllay didn't cheat on you in the actual canon.

**Sai:** Fortunately this is Aurora, so, no she didn't and don't talk that way about my girlfriend, bitch boy.

**Fllay:** Neither of you has the right to complain! At least the lot of you is alive!

**Sai:** Difference is that no one misses you.

**Fllay:** Like your demise would be such a tragic loss either.

**Sai:** Well, to me it would!

**Cagalli:** Speak for yourselves, bastards! I wasn't even _in_ the freaking 'fic!

**Athrun:** Honestly, not like anyone missed you. And you should probably be happy that the author could restrain herself; given that she hates you enough to actually start writing a very crappy, very OOC 'fic in which I kill you just to get it out of her system, you'd probably have ended up married to Yuna for real. And anyway, I spent all of Destiny mindlessly mooning over Kira – how great a boyfriend could I have been?

**Yuna:** Cagalli! My HONEY! No, wait, dammit, I'm gay! It was one thing in canon, where all of us strutted around being blatantly queer yet having sort-of-maybe-kinda-almost-girlfriends, but this is Aurora: I can finally be up-front about my sexuality!

**Dearka:** Dude, this is a Gundam thing – we're _all_ gay.

**Miriallia:** Pity, that. I figured the two of us might go out for a while, otherwise. Come on, we're young and hot, or at least you're hot, and we went through some traumatic events together – it'd be a blast.

**Dearka:** True, having you cry on me _was_ fairly traumatic.

**Miriallia:** Well, honestly, it's not like you and Yzak are mellow enough to stay a couple without frequent fights and temporary break-ups. Actually living together is _hard_, and you screwed things up already before the mundane routine set in!

**Dearka: **Yeah, well, we screwed them right again!

**Kira:** Plus, Mirri, are you sure you wanna get treated to an endless row of replies along the lines of, "What do you mean, you don't like your coffee like this? Yzak always takes his like this," "What do you mean, you don't like this food? It's Yzak's favorite," "What do you mean, taking advantage of you? When Yzak does that that always means _do me or die_," "What do you mean, running away from your emotions? When Yzak does _that_ it always means _run for your life_"?

**Miriallia:** Depends on the sex, I guess.

**Kira:** Fancy being called "Yzak", do you?

**Miriallia:** It beats "oh shiny blob of butter".

**Nicol:** Oh, stop it, just stop it! Really, what have any of you got to complain about? _I_'m the one who began by spending more than half the story mooning pathetically over the oblivious Athrun, and I mean pathetically – we're horny teenagers practically living together and he was desperate enough to make out with Dullindal; why couldn't I take advantage of this? So, like, the farthest I ever got was sniffing his shirt and literally throwing myself at him without him even batting an eyelash. Then, when I finally get myself a nice piece of girlie ass, what happens? Yes Sir, off she goes and gets engaged to Dullindal! Just my luck!

**Lacus:** Well, I had to do something now that I couldn't go vigilante. There was just no way that would ever happen in Aurora, what with Le Klueze never explicitly going crazy and Kira and Athrun cooped up all cozily in ZAFT. The only one who would conceivably have followed me was Nicol, and hey, we all know it just ain't Gundam Seed if he doesn't get his ass thoroughly kicked.

**Dullindal:** Admittedly I'm less than interested in getting married to Lacus, but teaming up with her would make the two of us rulers of the universe in, like, five seconds flat. She has total control over Kira, who has total control over Athrun, who rules Lunamaria and her fat but vaguely cute sister, whereas I control Rey, who genially manipulates Shinn, who –

**Shinn:** Aside from the fact that Kira doesn't follow Lacus in the Aurora-verse, are you implying that my thoughts are not my own?

**Yzak:** Hey, it's starting to smell like fire, what's going on?

**Rey:** Oh, not to worry, it's just Shinn trying to think independently again. Shinn, knock it off, we've talked about this, remember!

**Shinn:** Yes, Rey. Of course, Rey. Whatever you say, Rey.

**Athrun:** Please tell me he's being sarcastic.

**Rey:** Sure I will. I am a highly accomplished liar, after all.

**Shinn:** But hey, I'm pretty sure I'm not gay. Hey, Rey, am I gay?

**Dullindal:** Oh, we'll just have Rey tell you to come over here and I'll find right out.

**Rey:** Dream on, dude. Shinn, you are absolutely, utterly, definitely straight, got it? Heh, you've got a sister complex from hell, so no surprise there.

**Shinn:** Now wait a damn minute here – this is a freaking AU by now. There's nothing to say that my family got brutally slain in this universe!

**Rey:** Yes, there is: it's the wonderful thing called the Fangirl Love of Angsty Bishounen. Now, Gil, why don't we go home and you can give me a reason why I shouldn't tell Shinn to kill you for your implied adultery?

**Talia:** And people wonder why I left the guy. I mean, he's hot and all that, and rich too, so I could easily die with him, but hell if I could stand living with him.

**Yzak:** Who cares? I feel ignored. I feel that I need a sequel to clear up all this uncertain stuff.

**Dearka:** I feel I need a sequel to provide us with some more quality time together.

**Yzak:** Idiot! That's what I said!

**Kira:** Then let's properly thank everyone who has kindly offered encouragement and thus prompted sometimes much-needed bursts of actual writing instead of just abstract musings. It has been great to know that Aurora has been an enjoyable experience to more people than us and the author.

**Athrun:** Special gratitude must be directed to Nikki, who kindly offered to proof-read before our author realized she has all kinds of hang-ups about anyone else tinkering with her texts, which means we'll have to wait until she beta-reads it herself.

**Patrick Zala:** In conclusion, thank you all so much, and please make sure that there's a sequel in which it is once and for all clarified that Genesis is _not an overcompensating penis symbol!_

**Yzak:** …He's your father.

**Athrun:** Unfortunately, yes. There, there, Dad. Let's go home and put you in that nice straight jacket we got you.

xxxxxxxxxx


End file.
